


shut up and dance with me

by spilled_notes



Series: Dance Me to the End of Love [1]
Category: Holby City
Genre: AU, Ballroom Dancing, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-09-27 22:46:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 32,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10055291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spilled_notes/pseuds/spilled_notes
Summary: An email about Holby's very own inter-ward Strictly Come Dancing prompts Bernie to revisit a much-loved hobby. Bumping into Serena is a surprise for both of them - and so social ballroom dancing is added to their relationship as colleagues and friends.A sort of canon-compliant AU, in which everything canon still happens but with extra ballroom dancing too (because why not?). Begins a little after 18.34, set mostly pre-secondment and entirely before Christmas (for those of you avoiding recent/current canon events).





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:  
> Jive - [Reet Petite](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tE46zm4yjhA&spfreload=10)  
> Waltz - [Bring On The Wonder](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zb0x4_2xocY&spfreload=10) (I know that technically it's a tad too fast but shh, artistic licence ok?)  
> Cha cha - [Mamma Mia](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=unfzfe8f9NI&spfreload=10)  
> Rumba - [Fields of Gold](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C3btEDrg5Us&spfreload=10)

To: All Staff

Subject: ADVANCE WARNING: Strictly Come Holby!

Date for your diaries: 22/09/2016

A glittering evening of healthy inter-ward competition.

Can you jive, cha cha, quickstep or waltz your way to success?

*          *          *

That night Bernie rummages through still packed boxes, scattering their contents around her in growing heaps on the floor, until she eventually pulls out a scuffed and battered pair of patent shoes, entirely unlike anything else she owns. She stares at them, thumb absentmindedly rubbing the leather, running over the few sparkling jewels left on the fraying straps.

Then she jumps up, steps over the mess she’s created and opens her laptop. Shoes beside her on the sofa she types a query into the search engine and starts scrolling through the results.

*

In the car park of one of Holby’s schools Bernie takes a few deep breaths before she gets out of her car and walks in, following the sound of music to the sports hall. There are quite a few people here already, some dancing, some sitting or standing around the edges of the room talking. She closes her eyes, sighs, and lets the music wash over her; the lively rhythm of the jive is infectious, and she knows she made the right decision.

And then she hears a familiar laugh, assumes she must be wrong because she can’t possibly be here, she’s just been spending too much time with her, too much time thinking about her. But she opens her eyes and scans the room anyway, unable to stop herself, and there she is: Serena.

Bernie’s transfixed. She’s jiving with a young man, her skirt swirling around her calves with every turn and spin. Laughing and carefree she somehow looks younger, the weight of the hospital and the board no longer on her shoulders. Bernie realises she’s never seen her in anything other than black trousers or scrubs and can’t help staring at those shapely legs, toned by years of ward rounds and long operations. And dancing too, it appears.

_What are the chances?_

And then someone walks over and welcomes her, and she forces herself to tear her gaze from Serena, to keep her eyes on this man – what was his name, again? Martin, that’s it. Martin. _Focus, Wolfe._

The music changes to a tango, there are a few moments of rearranging as couples leave the floor and others step onto it, as people switch partners. After asking her for a dance later Martin excuses himself, leaving her free to look for Serena, who’s dancing with someone else now. She’s clearly much in demand, and Bernie can see why. Her posture, the precision of her steps, the expressiveness of hand and leg and neck – even with a less accomplished partner everything is so clean and elegant, just like her every move in theatre.

 _What we could do together,_ Bernie muses.

She finds a seat, shrugs off her coat, bends to change her shoes then stands, accustoming herself to the heels, and searches Serena out again. She’s on the other side of the floor, almost directly opposite Bernie, partway through a sequence of ochos. And then she spots her and freezes, forgets to untangle her legs and stumbles against her partner. She tears her eyes from Bernie’s, apologises to the man, glances back for a split second and then very deliberately, almost theatrically, turns her head away and doesn’t look at her for the remainder of the dance. Bernie tries not to watch her, but can’t quite keep her gaze from slipping back time and again.

*

‘Stalking me are you, Ms. Wolfe?’ Serena asks, with a glint in her eyes.

‘Believe me, I’m as surprised as you are.’

‘Didn’t have you down as a dancer.’

‘Boarding school and army formals,’ she explains. ‘You?’

‘Post-divorce getting back out there.’

‘You’re good,’ Bernie smiles.

Serena blushes slightly. ‘Well I should hope I’ve picked one or two things up by now.’

‘Excuse me, Serena?’

Bernie sees Serena’s shoulders tighten, her jaw set, the smile disappear from her eyes even though it remains fixed on her lips.

‘David,’ she says, dislike evident in her voice.

‘Would you do me the honour?’ he asks, holding out his hand.

‘Actually, Serena and I were just about to dance together,’ Bernie says before she can answer.

The man looks disappointed, but Serena shoots Bernie a grateful look and takes her hand.

‘Later maybe?’ David asks.

Serena forces a smile, nods slightly and allows Bernie to lead her onto the floor as the music changes to a waltz.

‘Not your favourite partner?’ Bernie murmurs.

‘Thinks he’s god’s gift on the dance floor. Plus he’s been trying to get me to go for dinner with him for the best part of a year.’

‘Can’t take a hint?’

‘To put it mildly. Thank you for rescuing me.’

‘Said I’d have your back, didn’t I? Although I’m afraid it does mean you’re stuck with me now.’

Serena sighs dramatically. ‘I’m sure I shall manage somehow. I assume you know how to lead, seeing as you made the offer?’

‘All girls school. I was one of the tallest,’ Bernie confirms, taking her in hold and waiting for a gap.

‘Well then Ms. Wolfe, let’s see what you’ve got.’

‘Sounds like a challenge to me, Ms. Campbell.’

‘I know how you love those.’

‘It’s been a while though, you might have to cut me a little slack.’

Bernie shifts her weight, feels Serena do the same, and off they go. She starts off easy: natural turn and change step, reverse turn and change step, whisk and chassé – and it all starts flooding back. Step after step emerges from the recesses of her memory, and she feels herself begin to relax.

‘Not bad,’ Serena murmurs, and then yelps in surprise and grips tighter as Bernie pivots them around the corner.

‘You alright there?’ Bernie smirks, tightening her hold to steady her.

Serena glances at her. ‘Full of surprises, aren’t you?’

‘Well you wouldn’t want me to be predictable, that would be boring.’

‘One could never accuse you of being boring,’ Serena smiles.

Bernie feels Serena loosen her grip and relax in her arms as they continue down the length of the room in an elegant sequence of whisk, weave, natural and spin turns.

‘So, did I pass?’ Bernie asks as they come to a halt and separate slightly.

‘Impressive,’ Serena concedes. ‘But is your Latin up to scratch too?’

‘Are you asking me to dance, Ms. Campbell?’

By way of answer Serena takes her hand again and tugs her further onto the floor as ABBA fills the room. Serena smiles to herself as Bernie automatically takes the lead: she should’ve known her co-lead would like to be in control here too.

The cha cha isn’t quite as smooth as the waltz. There are a few late leads that Serena mostly manages to follow, a step Bernie can’t remember how to get out of and they have to give up, unwind their arms and start again, a moment when they’re stuck doing basics because Bernie’s mind goes blank.

‘My Latin always was weaker,’ Bernie apologises, but Serena shushes her.

‘Just means you need a bit more practice. If you can find someone to put up with you, that is.’

Bernie catches the twinkle in her eye, the teasing tone in her voice. ‘Anyone in mind, Ms. Campbell?’

‘Well I’m not sure I’d want to inflict you on anyone else so I suppose it’d better be me,’ Serena smirks.

‘Oh, the sacrifices you make for me,’ Bernie laughs. ‘Sharing your office and your ward, and now running the risk of being stepped on or having your arm twisted.’

‘I can think of worse ways to spend an evening,’ Serena smiles, entirely honestly.

And then there’s a turn that makes Bernie’s back twinge, causing her to wince.

‘Still giving you gyp?’ Serena asks, concerned.

‘A bit,’ she admits. ‘I’ll be good as new in no time though.’

*

Serena sits the next dance out, watches as Martin asks Bernie for a foxtrot. Martin is an accomplished dancer, can make anyone look good, but Bernie looks more than good. The sheer elegance of the woman surprises her, the swing and sway, the fluidity of her movement, the precision of her footwork. She finds herself transfixed – so much so that she doesn’t notice when someone sits beside her.

‘Who’s the new girl?’

‘What?’ Serena tears her eyes from Bernie and Martin and looks around. ‘Ah, Neil,’ she smiles at her old friend.

‘So, who is she? Saw you dancing – you look good together, turned a few heads.’

Serena laughs. ‘Colleague,’ she explains, eyes drifting back to the floor.

‘Name?’ he prompts, following her gaze.

‘Bernie,’ she obliges, smiling softly.

*

Bernie doesn’t dance much more, her legs and feet protesting at the shoes she’s become unused to wearing, her back stiffening and restricting her movement. With a frustrated huff she sits down, about to change her shoes when she catches Serena’s eye. She’s suffered through a quickstep with David with good grace, but from her expression can’t stomach the thought of a rumba. Bernie hauls herself up, walks as quickly as she can to Serena, the pain worth it for the gratitude shining in her eyes as she apologises profusely, explaining that she’d promised Bernie another dance.

‘I’m sorry,’ she murmurs as Bernie winces again. ‘You could’ve done without this.’

But Bernie waves it away. ‘I don’t mind,’ she smiles sincerely. ‘Although I think you might have given him a bigger treat,’ she adds, seeing that David’s eyes are fixed on the sway of Serena’s hips. Not that she could blame him: Serena has the perfect figure of eight motion the rumba calls for.

‘Let him look,’ Serena laughs. ‘As long as he’s not touching.’

By halfway through the song Bernie feels herself tiring. She grits her teeth and alters the motion of her hips, trying to reduce the pull on sore muscles, but eventually has to admit defeat.

‘Sorry,’ she says, leaning on Serena’s arm and sitting down gingerly.

‘I shouldn’t’ve made you dance,’ Serena frowns.

‘I could’ve said no,’ Bernie says softly. ‘My own fault.’ She grimaces as she bends to remove her shoes, slips on her trainers and then stands carefully.

‘You alright to drive?’

‘I’ll be fine, Serena,’ she smiles, starting for the door.

‘Oh, Bernie?’

‘Yes?’

‘I’d be grateful if you didn’t tell anyone at work about this?’ she says, fingers toying with her necklace. ‘Only it’s – well, they don’t know, and it’s nice to have something completely separate, if you know what I mean?’

‘Oh yes, yes, of course,’ Bernie replies, heart dropping a little because surely this is Serena’s polite way of asking her not to come back? ‘Goodnight.’

*

The next morning Serena notices that Bernie’s walking a little stiffly, her gait less fluid than usual, hips and shoulders tense.

‘Your back still sore?’ she asks, flooding with guilt. _My fault_ , she thinks. _Why did I make her dance again?_

Bernie shakes her head, sits at her desk with a soft groan and massages her calves. ‘It’s my legs,’ she admits quietly. ‘Not used to being in heels.’

‘I hope it won’t put you off coming again?’

‘No, no, not at all,’ Bernie replies, hiding her surprise.

‘Good,’ Serena smiles. ‘I had fun dancing with you.’

Bernie feels her heart swell, the pain in her legs forgotten. ‘I had fun too.’


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:  
> Tango - [Libertango](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YUETKr2BQxw&spfreload=10)  
> Waltz - [Take It to the Limit](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dyLhMgB_hcE&spfreload=10)

It’s mere days after Arthur leaves them.

_Arthur._

Every time Serena thinks of him her heart clenches, a torrent of grief and anger wells up inside her. She keeps expecting him to walk onto the ward. Keeps remembering that he won’t. She’s glad of Bernie’s company in the office, glad not to be alone with her thoughts. Glad to be forced to keep her emotions in check.

She doesn’t really feel like dancing tonight. It would seem disrespectful to have fun when Morven’s grieving, when Arthur’s–

It’s like her mind chokes on the word, like she can’t even think it, let alone say it.

When Arthur’s gone.

Besides she isn’t sure her leaden legs would cooperate. And she certainly isn’t going to make for very good company.

But when she checks her phone after a meeting with Hanssen there’s a text from Bernie: ‘See you later?’

‘Maybe,’ she replies. ‘Not really in the mood.’

‘Me neither. Might do us both good?’

Serena’s first response is to bristle at this, this assumption of knowing what’s best for her.

 _How dare she?_ she thinks. _How dare–_

And then she remembers the steady supply of coffee the past few days, the way Bernie has been solicitous but never mollycoddling. Remembers the amount of wine she’s drunk in front of the TV every night, numbing herself against the inevitable moment when the shock wears off.

‘You might be right,’ she replies eventually.

*

When Serena arrives, the dancing is already in full swing. She makes her way around the edge of the floor to her usual corner, sits with a huff and changes her shoes. She looks up and scans the hall, spots Bernie dancing with Neil. The tango is Neil’s favourite dance – Serena’s too when she’s dancing it with him because he’s good, ever so good. As she settles back to watch he murmurs something to Bernie, who nods in response and allows Neil to draw her into a closer hold. They arch slightly away from each other to leave a correct but not exaggerated V between their upper bodies – and Serena finds she can’t look away.

Bernie’s back is clearly recovered. There’s no hitch in the fluidity of her movements as Neil puts her through her paces – swivels and ochos, flicks and hooks. No hesitation in staccato turns and smooth pivots. Serena feels a flare of jealousy, hot and sudden, frowns as she examines why, where it’s come from. It must be how they look together, she decides. Seeing someone else dance so skillfully, so – well, sexily, with Neil.

Because there’s no question, it _is_ sexy. Her eyes trace up Bernie’s slender legs, practically entwined with Neil’s. The graceful (ha, now that’s not a word that usually springs to mind when she thinks of her co-lead) line of her back under that perfectly fitted white shirt, the long neck visible thanks to her hair being swept into a messy ponytail, the little frown of concentration on her face.

And then Bernie catches sight of Serena and her expression transforms, softens into a gentle smile, her eyes brightening. She raises her hand from Neil’s arm in a brief wave and Serena finds herself smiling too, her heart lifting for the first time all week.

‘Thought you’d changed your mind,’ Bernie says as she flops into the seat next to Serena.

‘Bloody board,’ Serena grumbles. ‘I must spend half my life in meetings that overrun.’

‘Well, you’re here now,’ she says, eyes meeting Serena’s from under her fringe, searching.

For a moment Serena worries she’s going to ask how she is, going to ask about Arthur, going to prod at a fragile heart only barely guarded.

But no. She simply stands again, saying, ‘Can I interest you in a dance?’

‘I’d be glad to,’ Serena smiles, taking the hand Bernie offers.

She doesn’t want to talk about Arthur: it’s all safe inside her, albeit precariously, better that it stays that way. Bernie doesn’t make her, just takes her in her arms and begins to waltz.

 _Maybe we’re both just as good at bottling things up,_ Serena muses. _Good old British reserve._

She knows it’ll pour out eventually. Knows it has to, or she’ll drown in it. But not here and now. Not yet. Not until she’s ready.

Distracted, she misses a lead and stumbles against Bernie.

‘Alright?’ Bernie asks softly, arms firm around Serena to steady her.

‘Sorry,’ Serena mutters, blushing.

‘After last week you’re a good few mistakes behind me,’ Bernie says lightly, and Serena chuckles despite herself.

She’s certain Bernie must know exactly what’s on her mind, exactly why she isn’t fully present. But she merely glances at her as they continue around the floor then returns her attention to keeping them out of trouble. Maybe holds Serena a little more carefully than before – not as if she’s fragile, about to shatter if she doesn’t hold her together, just tighter, firmer. So there’s no doubt that they’re together, a unit. No doubt that Bernie has her back, is going to keep her safe here, where that’s something she can promise.

‘Double reverse spin?’ Bernie murmurs in Serena’s ear.

‘I’m game if you are.’

‘Alright then.’ Bernie takes a deep breath, prepares and then whirls them around, feels how light Serena is on her feet as they step in perfect time together.

*          *          *

They bury Arthur a week later. In between – well, life goes on, sweeps Serena along with it. Patients to treat, board meetings and hospital politics, Jason, Bernie’s divorce.

They work well together. Despite what Serena had said, despite it being her suggestion, despite knowing it was the only viable option, Serena had had misgivings about co-leading. Had worried the staff wouldn’t accept it, worried they would clash, worried they were too different. Worried that Bernie would turn out to have an ego, would trample her underfoot in her efforts to build a civilian career.

But she doesn’t, she hasn’t. Having her back wasn’t just an empty cliché, it would appear. There are teething troubles, of course, but she’s as much to blame as Bernie (not that she’ll admit that out loud, not to anyone and certainly not to Bernie herself). Neither of them is used to working like this, after all. But they quickly settle into something comfortable, something that while unorthodox works well for them, and for AAU, for their patients. Something Serena has never had before.

Bernie is one of them now, one of the dysfunctional family Serena has gathered around her. The ward runs smoothly – smoother than ever, in fact, something Hanssen comments on in that annoying fashion he has of giving the impression he always knew this would be the case when Serena knows full well he can’t have. In theatre they work almost seamlessly, and Serena suspects it’s only going to get better as they learn each other. Oh they disagree, and Bernie frustrates her no end – when she’s too keen to take risks, to go against NHS protocol, when she refuses to let lost causes go – but they balance each other, and already Serena cherishes this.

And they dance. Just like operating together, there is an ease in dancing with Bernie. They don’t know each other well enough for it to be perfect – but neither do they know each other well enough for it to be like this. She can read Bernie here too, read her intentions in the tiniest shift of muscle or weight, the look in her eye. Just like she knows if Bernie needs a scalpel, suction, for her to press on the liver, she knows if she’s about to move into a whisk, a weave, a New Yorker. It’s never felt this easy with someone she’s only danced with for a month.

And somewhere along the line, Serena realises she’s made a friend. She doesn’t have many: Ric, Siân, Raf, Neil – and now Bernie. Bernie doesn’t make it easy to be her friend yet somehow it still is, astonishingly so, and Serena just falls into it, enjoys her company, longs for it. They talk and laugh, in theatre or dancing or over drinks in Albie’s. She joins them for fish and chips and _World’s Strongest Man_. Jason accepts her – adores her – and she seems to like him.

(Bernie likes following rules, Serena has discovered. The problem is that they’re her rules, or army rules, not Holby’s or Serena’s. _Maybe that’s why she and Jason get on so well_ , she muses.)

Bernie has gone from someone she didn’t know to someone who’s in every part of her life – someone she trusts and confides in – in a matter of months. Incredible.

*

And then that day. That day when they’re supposed to be saying goodbye to Arthur. The day they all have to rush from the church and straight into a chaos they’re lucky not to see all that often, that most of AAU has never seen but that approaches what Bernie has spent years existing in. When Bernie suggests taking over Serena lets her, is glad to bow to her superior experience. Trusts her – in theatre, on the ward, with her nephew, to take care of them on a crowded floor. In a crisis.

She spots an opening, an opportunity. Something she has been wanting to do for quite some time, something that would help her new friend too. Surely Hanssen can’t say no after this?

He doesn’t. But when Bernie comes to thank her Serena is lost, lost in the grief and anger that’s been building inside her since Arthur died, since before, since his diagnosis.

‘Not if it’s something you’re hiding behind,’ Bernie had said. _Directed at herself, or at me?_ Either way she’s right – time to stop hiding. She hoped she might make it home, only got as far as the peace garden before she couldn’t hold it in any more.

And Bernie holds her. It’s nothing like how she’s used to Bernie holding her, a different beast altogether from dancing with her, and yet there’s a familiarity too, a steadiness. And yet again today Serena is beyond grateful for her presence.

*

Bernie has become used to holding Serena, used to how Serena feels in her arms. Serena isn’t the only person she dances with, far from it. But with Serena it feels – well, _right_ , in a way that’s new to her. Easy. She never hesitates to offer her hand, to accept Serena’s, to clasp their fingers and slip her other hand around Serena’s back.

This, though? This doesn’t come so easily – never has. In Bernie’s experience there’s no intimacy about touching someone on a dance floor but she doesn’t reach for people elsewhere, doesn’t like being reached for, keeps her hands to herself and prefers it when other people do the same. (Except Serena, it appears. She doesn’t spend too long examining why this should be, why Serena’s touches don’t make her uncomfortable, don’t feel like an invasion of her personal space, are more than tolerated.)

Seeing Serena’s grief shocks her. Her own anger and pain at what her children are doing, at how she’s lost them, fades into nothing because Serena _has_ lost someone who was almost like a child to her, someone she had nurtured and supported and loved.

_How can I make her feel better?_

Nothing else matters, nothing but the desperate need to comfort her colleague, sponsor, friend. Her hand gravitates towards Serena, settles on her shoulder. It’s just like dancing with her.

It’s nothing like dancing with her.

But it still feels right – easy – to hold her close.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:  
> Foxtrot - [Back To Black](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TJAfLE39ZZ8)  
> Jive - [Dead Ringer for Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cnltoHEOcI4&spfreload=10)  
> Viennese Waltz - [Wine, Women and Song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zq5RuKREJzE&spfreload=10)

Nothing changes in the following weeks. Preparations for the trauma bay are added to the everyday business of running the ward, and amid the nerves and excitement Bernie can’t quite believe her luck. Sometimes when she looks at Serena across the desk she has to pinch herself. But alongside, the divorce rumbles on. It hurts Bernie more than she’d ever let on that the kids have sided with Marcus.

 _Nothing more than I deserve,_ she thinks bitterly, alone in her flat after too many whiskeys.

On the ward she compartmentalises, tucks it away behind professionalism and British reserve, buries it under the piles of work generated by overhauling the trauma system. She’s creating a new life here, doesn’t need the pain of her defunct marriage and crumbling family intruding on the partnership she’s building with Serena.

She doesn’t know that Serena knows – but of course she does. They’re both practiced at keeping personal and professional separate, hiding weakness behind a mask, but they seem to be able to see through each other to the truth.

Serena knows Bernie’s struggling, repays her earlier kindness with coffees and pastries and completed paperwork, and uncomplainingly keeping their office from resembling a bombsite as she herself rushes between ward and theatre and board meetings and Jason. Waits to see if she’ll snap, hopes she’ll be there when it happens to offer her support, her comfort.

*

It happens when they’re dancing. Not a snap, not as such, but a crack in the façade. A foxtrot. Always Bernie’s favourite dance, with its intricate floor patterns and smooth, continuous movement, an elegance entirely lacking in the rest of her life. It’s harder to lead, though, doesn’t come automatically yet. Tense and seething from Marcus’ latest missive sent via their lawyers the swing and sway isn’t there, and her arms feel rigid around Serena’s soft warmth, her spine stiff and unwilling, her legs leaden.

A lapse in concentration, a misjudged angle on a turn, and Bernie suddenly finds herself backing the line of dance with couples heading straight for them. In that split second Serena sees the panic in Bernie’s eyes, the irritation that _bloody Marcus_ has intruded here, in her sacred space. But before Bernie can react, before she can fix this mess and keep Serena safe, Serena has smoothly reversed their hold, has fixed it herself.

‘Alright,’ she murmurs softly, slipping easily into the flow of couples.

And Bernie finds herself so caught in wonder, in recalibrating what she knows of Serena, in learning how she leads, that she forgets it all. There’s nothing but the music and Serena’s arms around her, the tilting of her shoulders, the grasp of her fingers, the gentle pressure holding them together and guiding her steps.

And it feels nothing like being led by a man.

*

When they come to a halt Serena slips her hand from Bernie’s back but doesn’t let go of her hand. Bernie is gazing at her, eyes wide with surprise.

‘Said I’d have your back too, didn’t I?’ Serena smiles and then leads her to sit, the bustle of the room fading away around them.

‘You kept that bloody quiet,’ Bernie says eventually.

‘Well, a woman has to have some secrets,’ Serena says with a wink, and Bernie half smiles. ‘Let me take care of you tonight?’

She sees the hesitation, the tightening of her jaw, and gently squeezes her hand. Knows she sees this need for help, this relinquishing of control, as a weakness.

‘You’re not asking for help,’ she says quietly. ‘I’m offering it. And I don’t lead much these days so you’d be doing me a favour to let me brush up.’

From under her fringe Bernie catches her eye, bites her lip in indecision.

‘It’ll be just like at work,’ Serena coaxes. ‘Equals and first port of call, etcetera.’

Eventually Bernie lets out a tiny sigh and nods, fingers squeezing Serena’s. ‘That would be nice,’ she admits, barely more than a whisper.

They sit a little longer, hands still clasped, and Bernie feels herself calm and soften at the brush of Serena’s thumb across her skin.

‘Come on, then,’ Serena says eventually, standing and drawing Bernie up with her. ‘Nothing’s bound to cheer you up like a jive.’

*

Serena doesn’t let her go all evening, from that first foxtrot through to a Viennese waltz that leaves them collapsing, breathless and grinning and ever so slightly unsteady on their feet, into their seats.

‘Thank you,’ Bernie says seriously, gaze catching and holding Serena’s.

‘It’s been my pleasure,’ Serena replies. ‘Same time next week?’

‘Sounds good to me. Although maybe we could share the leading duties?’ she suggests. ‘We are equals, after all,’ she adds, lips quirking and eyes glinting.

Serena rolls her eyes, groans good-naturedly. ‘Should never have said that,’ she grumbles but she’s smiling, her eyes alight, and Bernie feels another knot of tension loosen within her.

*          *          *

Just as Bernie has become part of Serena’s AAU family, so she finds herself becoming part of her dancing family, just as warm and welcoming and fiercely protective of their own.

Neil, who Serena’s known for the best part of a decade. Bernie briefly wonders if there’s ever been anything between them because they’re so familiar, so comfortable being physically close. Serena just laughs at the suggestion, explains that Neil is devoted to a wife who hasn’t the slightest interest in dancing and who spends her Thursday nights playing bridge instead.

(‘So you work with Serena,’ he says one evening when they find themselves sitting alone.

‘Yes,’ Bernie replies, peeking from under her fringe to surreptitiously follow Serena’s progress around the floor.

‘Are you as good as she is?’

‘I suspect Serena would tell you that my admin skills are lacking and I take too many risks,’ she says with a wry smile.

‘But you’re good?’ he presses.

‘Yes,’ she says.

 _Not cocky_ , Neil decides. _Merely confident in her abilities. Like Serena._

‘Must be,’ he nods. ‘She wouldn’t share her ward with just anyone.’)

Martin, who works in a bookshop but is a dance teacher in his spare time, a fact he keeps very quiet so he can enjoy his evening off. His wife Helena, who manages events at one of Holby’s theatres and who Serena treated following an RTC years ago. They commiserate over aches and pains from old injuries, however differently they were acquired, and Helena gives Bernie the name of her osteo.

(They’re a joy to watch together, but sometimes their love for each other is so palpable Bernie feels she’s intruding and has to look away.

 _There can be intimacy on the dance floor,_ she muses. _If you find the right partner._ )

Claire and Sam, a young couple with boundless energy and enthusiasm but no sense of rhythm and two left feet apiece.

(‘It doesn’t matter how much we try and help,’ Serena laments as they watch them waltz on the wrong beat for an entire song.

‘Well they’re having fun, that’s what matters. Not everyone’s aiming for perfection, after all.’)

*

They dance together more and more, settle into a partnership of co-leading not at all unlike their working relationship. After that first time, after Serena rescued them from her mistake, Bernie is perfectly happy to cede control of the foxtrot.

(‘You’re a much better lead than me. No need to look so smug,’ she adds when Serena smiles.

‘Bernie Wolfe admitting weakness?’ she teases.

‘No point having a co-lead if they don’t actually do any leading,’ Bernie shoots back, drawing a laugh from Serena.)

She’s handed the tango after her heel scrapes Serena’s leg one time too many.

(‘Don’t worry,’ Serena says, seeing Bernie’s horrified expression as she rubs the long mark down her shin. ‘I’ve given myself far worse injuries.’

She points to a faded scar near her left ankle and Bernie’s eyes linger on the fine bones and pale skin for much longer than is strictly necessary.)

Wrests back the Viennese mid-dance as she feels Serena’s frame loosen and her steps begin to skip and lag behind the beat.

(She revives in Bernie’s arms, later admits she finds it far easier to relax into a pace someone else is setting.

‘But I’ll thank you to keep that to yourself,’ she warns, a teasing glint in her eye.

‘Your secret’s safe with me,’ Bernie promises.)

As for the rest? Well, they switch as they so desire, sometimes even in the middle of a dance because why not? Why shouldn’t they make this whatever they want it to be? Bernie enjoys leading, wouldn’t hesitate to admit it. But to her surprise it isn’t because she wants to be in control, wants to be able to determine what happens next, wants to know that there’s always a plan B. No, it’s about wanting to take care of Serena, to keep her safe, keep her from being stepped on (by someone other than her, at least) or danced into. And, she thinks every time she watches Serena complete an intricate sequence of ochos or challenges her to a longer series of turns, it’s all about wanting to show off this gorgeous, talented woman she’s lucky enough to be dancing with.

But she enjoys being led too. Just like in theatre she feels safe with Serena in control, feels secure in her arms. It’s about her skill, yes, but there’s something else too. Ric is just as good a surgeon; so is Jac. Neil and Martin are both excellent dancers, careful and considerate leads; Martin is by far the best dancer Bernie has ever met. But operating with Serena, dancing with Serena? It feels altogether different. Bernie doesn’t believe in psychic links or clairvoyance, but sometimes she’s almost certain they must be reading each other’s minds. How else could she explain knowing that Serena was considering a wing before changing her mind and leading her into a weave instead? How Serena followed a barely-there lead into a fishtail? How she knows exactly how many consecutive American spins or natural turns Serena can manage simply by the look in her eyes?

 _Maybe it’s because you’re used to only seeing her eyes in theatre,_ the rational part of her brain points out.

 _Yes,_ Bernie considers. _But most other surgeons have to use words too._


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:  
> Rumba - [Chasing Cars](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qQ6HdDAHelo)  
> Quickstep - [You Can’t Hurry Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YpSr1egPSMI&spfreload=10)  
> Cha cha - [Shut Up and Dance](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nbcCG7PkI18&spfreload=10)  
> Waltz - [Bring On The Wonder](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zb0x4_2xocY&spfreload=10)

‘Ah Bernie, glad I caught you,’ Serena says, closing the office door behind her. ‘Are you free on Saturday night?’

It’s the day after the opening of the trauma bay, the day after Serena resigned as Deputy CEO. She spent her lunch break gleefully boxing up all the paperwork – or ‘detritus’, as she described it to Bernie – and sending it up to Hanssen to be heaped on her successor – ‘whatever unlucky sod that might be’. In fact she’s hardly stopped smiling all day, delighted to be carrying out even the most straightforward of operations, her mood lifting Bernie’s despite the glowering grey cloud of her post-divorce finances.

‘Unless someone’s changed my shifts without telling me,’ Bernie says, sitting back in her chair and looking at her. ‘Why?’

‘I was hoping you might help me celebrate my new found freedom.’

‘What did you have in mind?’

‘Two course dinner, plenty of wine, an evening of dancing? Martin and some of the others are going. It’s a sort of semi-regular thing, I’ve never had the time to go but I do now, thanks to you,’ she smiles.

‘I’d be delighted to,’ Bernie smiles in reply, Serena’s joy infectious.

*

They decide to share a taxi so they can both drink. Bernie’s flat is closer to the venue, and she’s still fussing over her outfit when Serena texts to say she’s on her way.

‘Smart but not black tie smart,’ Serena had told her.

‘Well, what are you wearing?’

‘That would be telling,’ Serena had smirked. But Bernie had looked so anxious she’d relented a little. ‘A cocktail dress. Black. And that’s as much as you’re getting out of me, so no more trying.’

So here she is, in front of the mirror, smoothing down a smarter white shirt than she normally wears, paired with black suit trousers and blazer, hair twisted up because she knows she’ll get too hot otherwise, a pair of delicate pearl drops in her ears.

‘Come on, Wolfe,’ she mutters. ‘Just a night out dancing with friends, stop fussing.’

She doesn’t see what Serena’s wearing until they arrive, until they step out of the taxi into the warm summer evening. And then she can’t stop staring, and the bottom feels like it’s fallen out of her stomach. Black cocktail dress indeed. Low-cut, perfectly fitting, revealing the curves her flowing blouses usually hide. Bernie finds herself forcibly reminded that her friend is a very attractive woman indeed.

‘Do I look alright?’

Bernie feels herself blushing, caught out in her admiration. ‘Yes, yes,’ she stammers. ‘Beautiful.’

Serena smiles broadly, eyes lighting up. ‘Don’t scrub up bad yourself,’ she says with a wink, and holds out her arm. ‘Shall we?’

Bernie takes her hand, tucks it into the crook of her elbow, a chivalrous gesture that makes Serena chuckle. ‘Let’s.’

*

Dinner is good: nice food, very nice wine, good company. They sit with Martin and Helena, Neil and three others Bernie recognises but doesn’t really know. They talk and laugh, but Bernie keep finding her eyes lingering on Serena, on the spark in her eyes, the glint of diamonds at her throat, the elegance of her fingers when she gestures. Every now and then Serena looks at her too, their gazes catching and holding until her attention is drawn elsewhere.

When dessert arrives Serena offers a forkful of her cheesecake to Bernie; Bernie reciprocates with a spoonful of rich chocolate mousse, catches herself shivering at the soft moan of appreciation Serena makes. Bernie loves chocolate mousse, but she offers the rest of it to Serena without a thought. It’s worth it for the look of bliss on her face.

*

They linger over their wine, Bernie feeling deliciously drowsy in the dim lighting and soft music.

 _I could quite happily just sit here all night_ , she thinks, watching through heavy lids as Serena laughs at something Helena says.

Even as the dancing is announced and the music gets louder Bernie is perfectly content in her seat. Until Serena stands up, slips her wrap from her shoulders, catches Bernie’s eye with a quirk of her eyebrow and a tilt of her head.

Bernie groans softly but allows Serena to take her hand and pull her upright, to lead her onto the floor for a rumba, grateful for a slow dance to get herself moving. Serena’s dress, she can see now, has a low enough back to show off her shoulder blades. She sees the scars too, faded but still visible to someone standing this close, someone used to seeing the remnants of old damage patterning her own skin. She wonders what they’re from but doesn’t ask, doesn’t want to pry, to ruin Serena’s night. Wonders if it was Edward and feels a spike of white-hot anger at even the possibility of it, at what she’ll do to him if she finds out he ever dared to lay a hand on Serena.

And then her eyes follow the elegant line of Serena’s spine where it disappears beneath the fabric, the curve of her waist, her hips. She’s caught out again in her admiration when Serena turns, but already warmed by heat and alcohol she thinks ( _hopes_ ) her blush won’t be visible this time.

‘Like what you see?’ Serena teases with a wink.

‘I think everyone’s going to be jealous of me tonight,’ she replies.

And she’s right, if the amount of eyes already lingering on Serena is anything to go by.

Serena throws her head back and laughs, and Bernie hates herself a little for the way she can’t help but stare at her throat. _You’re no better than them,_ she scolds, snapping her gaze back over Serena’s shoulder.

‘I think,’ Serena murmurs, a smile teasing her lips, ‘there may also be a number of people who are jealous of _me_.’

Bernie looks at her, surprised. ‘You’re kidding, right?’

Serena shakes her head. ‘And who could blame them?’ she asks, putting a little more space between them, eyes unmistakably raking down Bernie’s body, slipping her fingers from Bernie’s grasp to stroke the lapel of her blazer. ‘When you look so lovely?’

Bernie feels her cheeks heat again, gaze slipping from Serena’s at the unexpected flattery. ‘Thank you,’ she stammers.

And Serena silently vows to compliment her more often, until she’s no longer embarrassed. Wonders how Marcus could have been married to her for twenty-five years and _not_ have told her she’s beautiful, gorgeous, lovely (not to mention talented, brave, magnificent) every single day?

*

After a few dances together they separate, swap partners to make various combinations of those sat around their table. Bernie notices Serena politely decline several offers from other men too, watches in case any of them are too persistent but Serena sees them all off with no need for her help. She isn’t flirting with them, Bernie realises as she sits to take a break, and her heart seems to rise and fall at the same time.

 _She could be flirting her way around a dance floor filled with willing men, and she isn’t because she’s here with me, because she feels obliged to dance with me._ She pours herself another glass of wine, takes a large sip. _I bet she’s wishing she never asked me to come._

When a hand comes to rest on her shoulder Bernie jumps, can’t stop a small yelp of surprise, narrowly escapes spilling wine all over the tablecloth and herself.

‘Only me,’ Serena says with a smile, reaching over her for her own glass.

‘No one catch your eye?’ Bernie forces herself to ask. ‘At least half the room wants to dance with you.’

Serena searches her face, her eyes, a scrutiny Bernie would feel uncomfortable with if it were anyone else. ‘Only one person I want to dance with for the rest of the night,’ she says softly, seriously. ‘If you’ll indulge me, that is?’

Bernie gazes at her. ‘You– you could have any of them,’ she manages.

‘Yes,’ Serena says, well aware of the admiring looks following her. ‘But I don’t want them. I invited you because I wanted to spend the evening with you, not because I wanted a– a wingwoman.’ She steps closer, hip brushing Bernie’s arm, fingers caressing the fabric of her blazer. ‘I enjoy dancing with you, Bernie, more than with anyone else.’

‘Really?’

Serena nods. ‘So will you?’ she asks, setting down her wine glass and offering her hand. ‘Please?’

Bernie stares at her, then smiles widely. ‘Yes,’ she says, ignoring the thrill when she slips her hand into Serena’s, when their fingers brush and their palms press. ‘There’s nothing I’d like more.’

‘Oh, that’s better,’ Serena sighs contentedly when Bernie slips her right arm around her, hand resting on the back of her rib cage, when she feels the familiar shift of weight, the familiar lead into the quickstep.

And Bernie can’t help but agree.

*

Later, after they’ve stopped several times for more wine and plenty of blissfully cold water, after Bernie has removed her blazer and rolled up her sleeves (and Serena’s eyes have lingered on the soft skin and strong muscles of her forearms), the floor becomes more crowded, the dancers more expansive as the alcohol flows. When, during a cha cha, the couple beside them fling their arms out in a rather overenthusiastic New Yorker, Serena unthinkingly pulls Bernie closer, an automatic movement to get her out of harm’s way. Which means they’re suddenly flush against each other. She feels Bernie stiffen, in surprise or discomfort she doesn’t know, and immediately steps back.

‘Sorry,’ she murmurs, blushing, gesturing at the wayward couple in explanation.

Bernie stares at her, slightly wide-eyed, feet still moving on autopilot. They finish the dance in tense, awkward silence, with more than the usual gap between them.

Serena, embarrassed and kicking herself for making Bernie uncomfortable, is about to excuse herself and find a large glass of Shiraz but Bernie keeps hold of her hand, meets her eye when she turns in surprise and smiles, head tilting slightly in question. Serena lets out a breath, smiles in return.

‘This was the first song we ever danced to,’ Bernie says as she draws Serena into hold, lips close to her ear to be heard over the music and chatter.

‘So it was,’ Serena replies, barely masking her surprise when Bernie pulls her closer than usual, until their right hips are pressed together and Bernie’s thigh is between hers. She turns her head to look at her but Bernie’s eyes are fixed on the floor, on finding them a space to move into.

And besides, she’s rather too close for a decent view of her face. Instead she can see the soft skin of her neck, the now faint scar from her surgery, the jump of her pulse, the loose strands of fine hair, the delicate pearl earring suspended from an equally delicate earlobe.

They’re half way around the room, still pressed together, when Bernie tenses slightly. ‘Is this alright?’ she asks, coming to a halt at the edge of the floor. ‘I’m sorry, I should’ve asked.’ She tries to push Serena from her slightly, but Serena stays put.

‘Yes, it’s alright,’ she replies firmly, gently squeezing Bernie’s hand. ‘More than alright.’

‘I don’t want you to feel, that is, I, uh–’

‘Bernie?’

‘Hm?’ Bernie looks at her, eyes filled with worry, brows knotted.

‘Shut up and dance with me.’

Bernie smiles and Serena shifts closer again, pressing them together. She’s so warm and soft; Bernie can feel the sheen of sweat on her back, the reassuring grip of her hands. Everything about her says _I want to be here, I want to be close to you_.

Serena feels every shift of Bernie’s muscles against her, can smell her shampoo and perfume and the tang of sweat with every breath. For a moment she closes her eyes, completely trusting Bernie to keep her safe.

‘I’ve never really cared for the waltz,’ Bernie admits quietly. ‘I seem to have developed a new appreciation for it with you.’

‘Me too,’ Serena replies, lips inches from Bernie’s ear, hot breath stirring the tendrils of hair escaping from their twist. ‘It’s rather lovely actually, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ Bernie murmurs, and Serena’s almost certain she presses her even closer for the briefest of moments.

*          *          *

 _The floor was crowded,_ Bernie repeats to herself on the drive across Holby the following Thursday night. _That’s all it was. The floor was crowded, it was necessary._

She tries to ignore the flicker of hope that dancing so close will become normal, that it will ever be anything more than the product of a specific situation – a busy floor, too much wine, Serena’s joy at being free from the tyranny of the board. Serena hasn’t said anything about it at work, of course. But she also hasn’t stopped the casual touches that Bernie finds herself looking forward to – longing for, even – when she would barely tolerate the same from anyone else, doesn’t seem uncomfortable. Is maybe even catching her eye more, smiling more, hand lingering on her arm or shoulder more. But then that could just be Bernie’s imagination, could just be because she’s more attuned than ever to Serena’s every move.

_The floor was crowded, it doesn’t mean anything else._

It felt so right, though, to be that close.

 _She only ever dances that close with Neil, no one else,_ she reminds herself sternly. _They’ve known each other for years. She won’t want that with me._

She pushes down the disappointment, locks it away. Dancing with her at all will be enough, will be wonderful. She doesn’t need anything more. No matter how right and easy and _perfect_ it felt, no matter how in sync they were.

*

Serena declines Neil’s offer for the first dance of the night. Instead she sits, absently fiddling with her necklace, foot tapping at double the speed of the music, her eyes on the door.

She’s late.

_Maybe she isn’t coming._

_No, she’d have told me._

She pulls her phone out of her handbag yet again, checks.

Nothing.

Sighs, puts it away, glances around the hall but can’t stop her eyes slipping back to the door.

Can’t stop the grin, the flood of relief, when it opens and there she is, here she is.

Bernie’s eyes flick to her then slip away, like she can’t quite look at her, and Serena’s smile fades a little. She watches as Bernie walks towards her, sees the straight spine and raised shoulders, the set of her jaw, the tightness in her that just screams anxiety.

 _Is she worried I’ll want to dance like that all the time?_ she thinks, fingers twisting, heart dropping a little. _Or that I won’t want to?_ she considers as Bernie sits beside her, silently changes her shoes. _She seemed to enjoy it just as much as I did,_ she muses, eyes tracing the line of Bernie’s spine, her arms, down to fingers fumbling slightly with the buckle on her left shoe.

‘Did you enjoy Saturday night?’ she asks eventually.

‘Yes,’ Bernie says with a nervous half smile, finally looking at her and holding her gaze. ‘Very much. Did– did you?’ she asks, biting her lip.

‘Yes,’ Serena says firmly. ‘Far more than I would’ve had you not been there.’

Bernie’s slight smile widens, chases away almost all of the worry in her eyes.

 _Worried I won’t want to,_ Serena decides, standing and holding out her hand with a quirk of her eyebrow. _We can lay that one to rest._

Bernie takes it, follows her onto the floor; Serena can feel the tension in her fingers, rubs her thumb across her knuckles. She doesn’t ask, doesn’t give Bernie the chance to mumble a misplaced and unwanted refusal, just draws her close without a fuss, as if this is what they always do. She’s ready to loosen her grasp if necessary, if she’s got this wrong, but Bernie sighs, relaxes, softens into her.

 _So that’s settled then_ , they both think. _It’s always going to be like this, it’s meant to be like this. This is how dancing is supposed to feel._


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:  
> Foxtrot - [Dance Me to the End of Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W0LZ4wMV3zw&spfreload=10)  
> Rumba - [This Is Not a Love Song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SGdms4-Lydw)  
> Waltz - [Bring On The Wonder](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zb0x4_2xocY&spfreload=10)

Bernie sits in the car, dithering, hands gripping and releasing the steering wheel.

_Maybe I shouldn’t go in. She’s hardly going to be glad to see me after that mess._

She’s had today off, hasn’t seen Serena since she left yesterday evening. Since the debacle with Cam and Keeley and the police. Since she lied to Serena, risked both their jobs, the trauma bay, their friendship, everything that has so quickly come to matter to her.

 _I should just go,_ she decides. _Don’t want to spoil her night._

But still she lingers.

*

It’s three weeks since they’ve properly danced together. Serena was working a late shift two weeks ago, and last week she’d been stuck in theatre with a trauma case, had arrived exhausted and breathless having driven the entire way just over the speed limit in time for two dances with Serena.

‘You shouldn’t have come,’ Serena had scolded. But any sting in her words was negated by the warmth in her eyes, by the smile lighting her face as soon as she saw her.

‘How could I have missed this?’ Bernie replied as she gathered Serena to her.

Truth be told she’d been far too tired to dance. But when she stepped out of theatre her first thought hadn’t been of dinner or wine or collapsing onto the sofa in front of the TV but of Serena, across town dancing in someone else’s arms. As she scrubbed her nails she calculated how long it would take her to finish up, to drive over, weighing up if it would be worth it.

A joke, really. As soon as she looked at the clock she knew she’d go, even if she only arrived in time to steal Serena away from her partner for the end of the last dance. Two dances – a foxtrot and a quickstep she could barely keep up with – had felt like winning the jackpot, however exhausted she had been the following morning.

*

Bernie sighs, leans forward to rest her forehead on the steering wheel.

‘Stupid,’ she mutters. ‘Stupid, stupid.’

 _God, maybe Cameron’_ _s not wrong. Maybe I–_

She’s disturbed by a tap on her window, looks up to see the woman herself, head tilted and eyebrows raised in question. She opens the door, and Serena ducks her head to catch her eye under the low roof.

‘Are you planning on staying out here all night, or are you actually going to come inside and dance with me?’

Bernie smiles, reaches for her shoes and bag, unfolds herself from her seat. When she stands Serena is much closer than she expected her to be, and as they walk in side by side their arms brush slightly.

 _He’s wrong,_ Bernie thinks firmly. _I’ve been dancing with her for weeks, I’d’ve noticed. Business as usual, Wolfe. Nothing going on, so nothing needs to change._

She’s clearly forgiven, if Serena’s mood and wish to dance with her are anything to go by. _What happened to lifelong, take it to the grave grudges?_ Bernie wonders, but isn’t quite brave enough to voice – just in case.

‘You get the email about the contest?’ she asks as they change their shoes. It had landed in her inbox today, details about signing up and the local dance teachers who had agreed to give a few lessons to help.

‘Hm,’ Serena huffs. ‘I’ve heard about nothing else all afternoon.’

‘You not, uh, not tempted to enter?’

‘That would rather let the cat out of the bag, don’t you think? Besides Hanssen’s asked me to be on the judging panel. He wanted a consultant from each ward, to try and make it fair.’

‘I hope you’re intending to be harsh on Keller,’ Bernie jokes, shocked to find herself disappointed that Serena won’t be dancing. ‘They’ll all be unbearable if they win.’

‘I will be fair and even-handed, Ms. Wolfe,’ Serena says sternly, but with a glint in her eye. ‘Besides I’m sure we don’t need to worry, we’ve got Raf and Morven on our team.’ She stands up, holds out her hands.

‘Probably a good job you can’t enter,’ Bernie says, letting herself be tugged onto the floor. ‘You’d put them all to shame.’

Serena laughs. ‘It would be horribly unfair, wouldn’t it – the two of us against the rest of them?’

‘You’d– you’d want to enter with me? If you– if you were going to, I mean?’ Bernie stammers, amazed.

‘Of course. I doubt I’d find another partner with your experience.’ The words are almost cold, clinical, but they’re betrayed by the warmth in Serena’s eyes. ‘I couldn’t imagine dancing with anyone else,’ she adds softly.

‘Me neither,’ Bernie smiles shyly.

‘Not going to be doing your bit for AAU then, Ms. Wolfe?’ Serena teases.

‘Well, someone’s got to keep the ward running while everyone else is obsessed with dancing,’ Bernie retorts, and Serena laughs.

*

‘We would do well, wouldn’t we,’ Serena murmurs later, leaning so her mouth is inches from Bernie’s ear as they rumba.

‘Yes,’ Bernie agrees. ‘They’ll never know what they’re missing.’

*

‘Which dance?’ Bernie asks, later again.

Serena hums in thought. ‘Tango?’ she suggests. ‘All that drama, the intricacy, the potential danger of flicks and hooks. Could look rather impressive. What do you think?’

Bernie considers. ‘Quickstep?’

‘They’d all be amazed we could move that fast,’ Serena smirks. ‘Same goes for jive or cha cha.’

‘Would teach them us old consultants have still got some life in us yet.’

‘Who are you calling old?’ Serena says in mock outrage, lightly swatting Bernie’s arm.

*

‘Waltz,’ they say together, eyes meeting as they hear the familiar chords at the beginning of what has become their song.

‘Of course,’ Bernie smiles. ‘What else?’

‘This is where it all began,’ Serena says softly.

‘Me rescuing you, if I remember correctly.’

‘Yes, you do seem to have a habit of doing that.’

‘I’ve always got your back,’ Bernie murmurs, right hand sliding to rest in its customary position.

‘And I’ve got yours,’ Serena replies, settling comfortably against her, fingers lightly squeezing her right arm just below her deltoid.

‘Lots of pivots round the corners,’ Bernie muses, after they’ve danced down one side of the room in silence.

‘Double reverse spins,’ Serena adds.

‘Ridiculously exaggerated rise and fall.’

‘A hesitation right here,’ Serena says, almost wistfully, as they pause with the music before setting off again (chassé and lockstep, turn and promenade and step through together, natural turn and spin turn, her skirt swirling around their legs).

‘Maybe it’s better they don’t know,’ Bernie says. ‘It would ruin my macho army medic image.’

‘Yes,’ Serena laughs. ‘I rather think it would.’

‘All the same,’ Bernie adds quietly.

‘Yes,’ Serena sighs. ‘I suppose I’ll just have to keep you all to myself.’

Bernie hums her agreement, gently squeezes Serena’s hand, feels a swell of joy at how lucky she is to be here, to be dancing with this woman.

 _My friend,_ she thinks firmly. _Nothing more, I don’t think of her as anything more._

*          *          *

Two days later she catches Raf and Morven arguing over which dance to choose at the nurses station, gets drawn in against her will.

‘Ms. Wolfe, what do you think?’ Morven asks.

‘If it isn’t about how to treat Mr. Hendricks, I don’t want to know,’ she says, not stopping on her way to the office.

‘Please?’

Bernie sighs and turns back, eyebrows raised. ‘Yes?’

‘I really think the samba would be amazing,’ Morven begins.

‘And _I_ would much rather do the quickstep,’ says Raf.

‘Toss a coin?’ Bernie suggests, not really willing to get involved, to let on that she has any knowledge of ballroom dancing whatsoever. To get coerced into dancing with a colleague who isn’t Serena.

‘You must have an opinion,’ Morven protests.

‘I’ve heard,’ says Serena, who’s quietly walked up beside them, ‘that a couple of the nurses up on Darwin are doing the samba.’

‘Well then we can’t do that, can we?’ says Morven, her face falling.

‘Quickstep it is,’ Raf grins. ‘Come on, Dr. Digby – patients to see.’

‘Did you make that up?’ Bernie asks suspiciously as they head to their office.

‘I just think they’d be better suited to the quickstep,’ Serena replies defensively.

‘I’m not arguing,’ Bernie says. ‘Plus, of course, it’s considerably easier to look like an idiot doing the samba badly.’

‘Precisely,’ Serena says with a wink. ‘This is a competition, after all, and I’m damned if I’ll let Ric or Jac beat us without a fight.’

‘Remind me never to go up against you,’ Bernie smiles.

‘You know, you really should find someone to enter with,’ Serena says quietly. ‘You’re missing out on all the fun.’

Bernie shakes her head, looks at Serena from under her fringe and smiles softly. She’s about to reply that how could she, when all she’d be thinking about was how much better it would be with Serena, when she hears the red phone. ‘No such thing as a quiet day,’ she groans, pushing herself out of her chair.

‘Oh, you love it really.’

‘Quite right, Ms. Campbell,’ she replies, her smile widening. ‘Nowhere I’d rather be.’


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:  
> Rumba - [Secundo Rumba](https://tea-and-procrastination.tumblr.com/post/159270335849/andy-fortuna-secundo-rumba)  
> Tango - [Dance With Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=41UJ3LXqihA&spfreload=10)

Bernie’s dancing with Neil, happily engrossed in a foxtrot and trying very hard not to compare how it feels to be led by him compared to Serena, when he nods towards the door in surprise.

‘Look who it is.’

Bernie looks around, feels her stomach flip when she sees Serena.

‘I thought she was on holiday this week?’

‘So did I,’ Bernie manages, a stupid grin forming when Serena spots her, meets her eye and smiles.

Then she forces herself to turn her head, to pay attention to the dance, to the man whose arms she’s in and not to think about Serena, whose arms she could be in, will shortly be in.

‘Aren’t you supposed to be in Italy?’ Bernie frowns, after Neil has hugged Serena in welcome.

‘Yes, well things didn’t quite go to plan.’

‘Stuck dancing with me instead, then,’ Bernie quips, trying and failing to hold back another grin.

‘Oh, I can think of worse ways to spend my holiday,’ Serena teases with a wink, catching at Bernie’s hand and slipping easily into her arms.

*

Everything is going swimmingly, just the same as last week, as every week, until they rumba. Suddenly, inexplicably, Bernie finds herself transfixed by the motion of Serena’s hips. She’s noticed it before, of course – the first time she saw her rumba, in fact – but it’s like she’s never quite _fully_ noticed just how perfect and smooth and sensuous it is. The skin of her left hand tingles, nerve endings alight where Serena’s fingers slip and slide and grip hers. She barely suppresses a moan when, after a sequence of turns, Serena presses against her, leans into her, warm and soft and lovely, their hips rocking in tandem. Bernie swallows hard, steels herself against the rush of arousal. Hopes the heat and exertion are enough to explain away the flush pinking her cheeks.

She wonders if Serena knows what she’s doing, if she’s playfully teasing or – and Bernie dismisses this thought before she’s even finished it – if she’s consciously, meaningfully, deliberately flirting with her. Either way, oh fuck if a Turkish towel wasn’t a terrible idea because Serena leaves no room to speak of between her front and Bernie’s back, brushing against her deliciously, and Bernie feels hot, guilty desire pooling in the pit of her belly.

She’s glad when Neil asks Serena for the next dance. Any other week she’d have been jealous of him, would have wanted to keep Serena to herself all night, would only have let go grudgingly. But tonight she sits to take the weight off suddenly shaky legs, closes her eyes and takes a few deep breaths to try and calm herself. When she opens her eyes she catches sight of them, gaze drawn to Serena before she can stop it.

 _I don’t look at her like I looked at Alex,_ she thinks desperately, Cameron’s words still playing on her mind. _I don’t. I don’t think of her like that._

But even as she thinks it her eyes follow the line of Serena’s back, the curves of waist and hip, linger on her face – smiling, laughing, beautiful–

_Stop it._

_She’s a friend and colleague. She’s straight. She’s shown no interest in women whatsoever, let alone in you._

And then Serena catches her eye and winks, her smile growing wider. And Bernie can’t help but smile back, can’t stop herself wondering if maybe, just maybe…

Serena comes straight back to her for the next dance, doesn’t even bother to sit down but holds out both hands and pulls her close.

 _Is there a flicker of something in her smile?_ Bernie wonders. _A glimmer in her eyes? Something in the way her hand caresses my arm, something beyond dancing in how her body seems to be drawn to mine?_

Bernie makes excuses not to dance any more rumbas for the rest of the night. Every other dance is manageable, if she concentrates. If she ignores the steadily coiling desire, the way her blood seems to fizz in her veins, the way her skin feels like it’s on fire, and _oh, are Serena’s eyes darker than usual? Is she even closer than usual, have I always been able to feel her breath against my neck, has her thumb always caressed mine like that?_

The rumba, she feels, stepping out to the bathroom, standing in front of the mirror and splashing her face with cool water, would be a step too far.

 _God, look at me. Surely she’s noticed? How could she_ not _have, with that flush, those pupils?_

Yes, to rumba right now would be, quite frankly, dangerous. Might lead to her dragging Serena into this very bathroom, lifting her onto the counter beside the sink. To her hands running up those legs, finding out if they feel as toned as they look. To her fingers edging inside–

The door opens and Bernie whips around guiltily. It’s not Serena, and the breath leaves her lungs in a whoosh of relief. The woman’s eyes meet hers in the mirror and they both smile politely.

‘Hot in there tonight, isn’t it?’ the woman says, running her wrists under the cold tap.

‘Mm,’ Bernie agrees. She splashes her face again, dries her hands on a paper towel. Glances at her reflection and sternly tells herself to stop thinking like this, to stop thinking about _Serena_ like this.

It’s hard, though, when as soon as she steps back into the hall Serena’s eyes meet hers almost as if she’s been waiting, as if she’s been watching the door so as not to lose even a glimpse of her.

_No, Wolfe. Of course she hasn’t._

Bernie swallows hard, straightens her spine, pushes the arousal firmly to one corner of her mind. She’s had practice at this, the best part of a lifetime not acting on feelings like this.

 _Not really like this, though,_ a treacherous part of her thinks. _Have you ever really felt like this before?_

And then she’s in front of Serena, offers her hand, prepares herself for the burn when their skin touches. Doesn’t prepare enough, still feels it rush through her whole body.

‘So how does this compare to the Amalfi coast?’ Bernie asks when she’s found her voice, when she trusts herself to speak without giving herself away.

‘Just wonderful,’ Serena purrs, the vibrations carrying through Bernie’s body. ‘Might even be better – Italy doesn’t have you, after all.’

Bernie flashes a half smile, makes the mistake of meeting Serena’s eye. She was expecting to see mirth, instead sees – well, something that looks remarkably like her own eyes did in the mirror a moment ago. It makes her forget to breathe, makes her heart skip and her stomach lurch – and this close she hears Serena’s breath catch in her throat, sees the tip of her tongue dart out to wet her lips.

Bernie gives it up as a lost cause, ignoring what’s filling her. It’s safe here, anyway, to display emotion. The tango can be her cover: she can blame it on the dance, can hide behind the music, pretend it’s not really her, feel it all without any risk.

She slips her hand a little lower down Serena’s back, holds them together a little more firmly, allows herself to pretend for a while that they are more than dance partners.

*

Serena can’t help the gasp that escapes her lips when she meets Bernie’s eyes, dark and smouldering, can’t keep herself from arching into her when her fingers trail down her back. There’s something charged between them tonight and Serena doesn’t quite know what it is, what it means.

 _It’s just the dance,_ she thinks, even as she drags her foot up Bernie’s calf, even as their legs hook and her skin tingles where she feels Bernie’s warmth through the fabric of her trousers. Even as they rock together, Bernie’s thigh between hers, pressing against her, and she has to suppress a whimper, swears she hears the tiniest moan in Bernie’s throat.

It doesn’t vanish when she gets home, this feeling, this arousal. _It’s been a while,_ she reasons, shivering as heated skin meets cool sheets. She turns her face into her pillow, muffles a moan when she feels just how wet she is.

Serena likes nice things, likes to have pleasure in her life – whether that’s a nice wine, expensive sheets, good coffee – or indeed sex. She knows what she likes, isn’t ashamed to touch herself, takes her time because why should she settle for mediocre when something so much better is within her power? Her hips cant up in search of pressure that isn’t there and she finds herself thinking of Bernie, of the feel of their bodies pressed together, moving together. Of the look in her eyes, the smoothness of her cheek when Serena impulsively pressed a kiss to it as they said goodbye.

 _It’s only natural,_ she thinks as, breathless and juddering with aftershocks, she splays sticky fingers across her hip, her other arm wrapping around her stomach, the nearest she can get to an embrace. After all, that’s the closest she’s been to being intimate with someone in months. Of course that’s what she’d automatically, unconsciously think of.

And so what if that imagining – of Bernie, warm and steady, all soft skin and curves and toned muscles – happened to coincide with the wave of her orgasm? It doesn’t have to mean anything, doesn’t have to come from anything more than their physical proximity, from the emotion in the dance and the music.

Serena sleeps deeply. Although she doesn’t remember it, she dreams of Bernie.

*

Across town Bernie knows she won’t be able to sleep feeling like this.

 _God, when was the last time I was this turned on?_ she thinks, slipping her hand inside damp knickers.

She tries so hard not to think of Serena but can’t help it. Serena’s face, eyes, body, fingers – _oh_ , what those fingers could do. And she’s too far gone to stop herself remembering how Serena arched into her when her hand inched further around her back, how their fingers tangled and their palms pressed. How Serena’s lips felt against her cheek, how they might feel against her own. How it might feel to have Serena in her arms with no clothes between them, skin against skin, to have Serena’s thigh between hers, to rock together and–

 _Fuck,_ she thinks in the breathless, timeless moment after her orgasm (the best she’s had in – oh, a long time), and laughs into the darkness.

And then the guilt sets in, floods her just as quickly as arousal had earlier, chills her so she has to pull the duvet up around herself despite the warmth of the August night.

 _What sort of a friend are you?_ she berates herself. _What sort of person does that?_

Bernie sleeps fitfully, dreams of Serena and certainly does remember. When she wakes she flops over and buries her face in her pillow with a groan. At least Serena’s still on leave, because she doesn’t know how she’d face her otherwise.

Bernie thinks of little else all week.

Neither does Serena.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:  
> Rumba - [Secundo Rumba](https://tea-and-procrastination.tumblr.com/post/159270335849/andy-fortuna-secundo-rumba)  
> Tango - [Libertango](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YUETKr2BQxw&spfreload=10)  
> Foxtrot - [This Business of Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FxcssgFNi5Y&spfreload=10)

_She kissed me,_ Serena thinks, lying in bed staring into the darkness. _She kissed me and I– I kissed her back._

_And I wanted it. God, I wanted it._ _Want it. Her. Oh, how I want her._

She touches her fingers to her lips. If she closes her eyes she can picture Bernie before her, can still feel her lips, her tongue, her hands. Can still feel Bernie’s hair twined around her fingers, the press of their bodies.

She drags a hand across her face, presses heel and fingers into her eyes hard enough that light blooms across her closed eyelids. Sighs, her hand falling to the pillow, stares at the ceiling. Remembers the split second of shellshock when Bernie leaned towards her, when their lips first touched. And then the desire, the deep, desperate need for more, more, closer. How wonderful and _right_ it felt.

She thinks back to last week, to after that rumba, to how it had been the thought of Bernie that pushed her over the edge. _It wasn't just about being close, was it?_

_Oh god, how long? Weeks? Months? Since we started dancing? Since we met?_

Moments flash before her eyes in the darkness, Bernie at the centre of all of them.

The arm wrestle, Bernie's hand in hers, the first grip of fingers that have now become so familiar. How strong, competitive Bernie had clearly let her win to – what? To cheer her up, make her day better, bring a smile to her face.

The gift Bernie gave her after her suspension. _She knew that I love Shiraz, even then._

The back massage, her need to make Bernie stop hurting. The first time she felt those strong muscles beneath her hands, the warmth of her through her scrubs.

Every time their arms brush, or their eyes meet. Oh, that evening in Albie's with Jason after she resigned as deputy and Bernie had peeked at her from under her fringe, eyes all dark and soft and _bloody hell, Campbell, how in god’s name did you_ not _notice, you fool?_

Everything about dancing together. Being in her arms, holding her, not wanting to let her go for either of them to dance with anyone else. The jealousy when she does. Watching her tango with Neil. _You noticed it was sexy,_ she chides herself. _Should that not have given it away?_

The first time they danced in close hold, the way their bodies mould together so perfectly, being able to feel every shift of muscle. _How it would feel to be pressed against her, skin on skin,_ she muses, a soft moan escaping her throat.

Last week, _oh_ last week. She swallows, lets out a shaky breath. Suddenly she can't stop thinking about it, about how her skin had burned and tingled where Bernie touched her, how there didn't seem to be enough air in the room, how Bernie's eyes had been darker than she ever remembers seeing them. About how desperately, incredibly turned on she had been. She feels herself getting hotter and wetter just thinking about it, and groans.

 _Maybe I should have seen this coming,_ she thinks with another sigh. _If she were a man I would have done._

_What on earth have you got yourself into, Campbell?_

She rolls onto her side with a huff, forces herself to breathe deeply until the desire abates enough that she can think again.

 _She wants it too,_ she thinks. _What do I want?_

_Her. Her. God, I want her._

_I've never– I've_ never _thought of a woman like this. Is this who I am?_

She feels the want coursing through her. The want for her company, her closeness, not just her body.

_Yes._

‘Bernie,’ she mouths silently, smiling into the darkness.

*

She wakes at three in the morning, gripped with panic.

_What if she doesn't want this, me?_

_What if she does?_

_Oh god, what's everyone going to think?_

_Does it matter?_

She almost laughs, a tiny hysterical noise at the back of her throat.

_Thank god we're not in together until Monday. Plenty of time to sort myself out._

_Three days of worrying, more like._

_I could call her. We could talk about it._

_No. I need the time._

*

By Sunday night Serena has come to the conclusion that yes, she does want this, all the evidence suggests that she does. She's nervous – terrified, even. But she's had all weekend to think, to consider, to run over and over every word, look, touch, feeling.

_I want Bernie Wolfe._

But when she sees her on Monday morning, when they're side by side in the lift, all the words she's rehearsed, all the things she thought she might say, vanish under a wave of anxiety.

 _Should've written notes,_ she thinks when she bolts onto the wrong floor, heart thumping and fingers trembling.

*

And again, head knocking against the office door.

_You can address the entire board, no problem. She's your friend, why can't you just talk to her. Stupid, stupid woman._

*

She finally settles in theatre, Fletch’s hoarse words repeating over and over in her mind.

_Is this small stuff, the fact that she's a woman, a colleague, a friend?_

She looks at Bernie across the table, feels a surge of fondness and joy and desire.

 _Yes,_ she decides. _It's new, and I'm scared – but I want this._

‘Do you, uh, fancy a drink later?’

‘Well if you're buying, I'm in.’

They pause before beginning to tie off the artery, their eyes meeting, and Serena smiles. Everything feels balanced again here, together, and as they suture in tandem she wonders what she was worrying about, wonders why she thought that having this partnership in every part of their lives could be anything other than a good thing.

*

She rehearses a speech. Lays out her feelings, her fears. Concludes by saying that she wants to give this – them – a go.

_Because we're good together, aren't we? And maybe we could be good together as – well, as more? And, oh Bernie, I want to kiss you again. You’re all I’ve been able to think about._

Her blood feels like champagne, a fizzing rush of adrenaline chasing through her veins with every beat of her heart. A dash of nerves but mostly excitement. The thrill of newness, of discovery, of – _oh_ , of what might be.

With Bernie.

*

 _Bloody woman with her bloody gallantry,_ she thinks, sitting in her car. _Your fault. If only you'd–_

Serena growls, sighs, turns the key and pulls out of her space.

_If only you hadn't panicked._

*          *          *

They barely see each other over the next few days, are barely in the office together thanks to opposing shifts and theatre schedules. It happens, of course. It doesn't mean either of them is deliberately avoiding the other – even if it feels like that.

But Bernie still fills Serena’s mind. She wonders what it would be like to wake up beside her, all splayed limbs and tangled hair and warm, drowsy eyes and soft, sleepy kisses. When she walks into their office and finds a discarded coffee cup and pastry crumbs over Bernie’s paperwork she isn’t annoyed but instead longs to have been there, fingers brushing as they shared a pain au chocolat at the end of Bernie’s shift and the beginning of hers.

She thinks about her as she’s making dinner, wonders if Bernie’s as good with a kitchen knife as she is with a scalpel. If she’s as meticulous in the kitchen as she is in theatre or as chaotic as she is in the office, if she’d cover every available surface, haphazard, with ingredients and utensils or leave bowls and pans in a neat pile on the counter next to the sink.

Fantasises about her when she goes to bed. In the dark and the quiet she conjures Bernie beside her, imagines crawling under the covers with her at the end of a long day, both of them exhausted, imagines falling asleep wrapped in Bernie’s arms and knows that she’d feel so _safe_. Imagines kissing her, too, after an evening of waltz and rumba and foxtrot, imagines the rapid shedding of clothes, imagines tumbling together onto the mattress and dragging Bernie close, closer even than when they dance. Imagines Bernie’s skin against hers, every inch laid bare beneath her fingers and lips.

It’s when she passes a bickering couple in the supermarket and wonders if she and Bernie would argue over which biscuits to buy, though, that Serena knows. That she’s certain, in a way she’s never been before, that this, while terrifying, is _real_. Not the product of the stress and emotion of what happened to Fletch, not some mid-life crisis or silly little crush, not about to fade or vanish.

 _Bickering in the biscuit aisle isn’t much of a fantasy,_ she scolds herself. _How very middle-aged._ _Si_ _â_ _n would be so disappointed in me._

And then she thinks of Bernie’s body against hers, Bernie’s hand on her back, Bernie’s fingers clasping hers, and feels a rush of desire that Siân would most definitely approve of.

_But what now? Now Bernie has put a stop to what could have been, what we both want?_

_Unless– unless she doesn't?_

Their eyes catch across the ward. Entirely by chance. It isn't that Serena's been surreptitiously watching her over her patient files.

 _It is,_ she thinks with a sigh. _Why am I trying to fool myself?_

Their eyes catch, and she's almost certain there's still something there, almost certain this isn't just her. Almost certain that while forgetting it ever happened might be wise, it isn’t what Bernie wants either.

*          *          *

And then Thursday rolls around again. Serena forces herself to eat, even though her heart feels like it's blocking her throat. Changes out of her work clothes and pulls on a skirt. Freshens her make up and tidies her hair.

_Can I dance with her again without thinking about–_

She picks up her shoes, says goodbye to Jason, gets into her car.

_The last time we were pressed together she was, I was–_

She drives across town, grateful the roads are quiet.

_Oh god, what if I–_

She sits in the car, fingers toying with her necklace.

_What if I kiss her again?_

‘Right. Come on, you can do this.’

*

By halfway through the evening, Serena finally accepts that Bernie isn't coming. She knows she isn't working, saw her leave an hour before she managed to get away herself, knows she isn't on call. Her heart sinks, but she doesn't know whether she's more disappointed or relieved.

‘No Bernie tonight?’ Neil asks gently.

‘Apparently not,’ she sighs.

‘Is everything alright?’

‘Yes, yes.’ She glances at him and smiles briefly, but he continues to frown. ‘No,’ she relents eventually.

‘You and Bernie?’ he guesses.

‘Me and Bernie,’ Serena laughs. ‘Now that would be something, wouldn't it?’

‘What, you mean you're not–?’

Serena shakes her head, casts her eyes up to the ceiling.

‘But you'd like to be,’ he says softly.

‘Yes,’ she says simply, with a shy smile. ‘Yes, I rather think I would.’

Neil smiles, covers her hand with his own. ‘What happened?’

‘She kissed me, I kissed her, I panicked. By the time I got myself in order she said we should forget it ever happened.’

‘Do you think that's what she really wants?’

‘I don't know. I don't think so.’

‘Well then.’

‘What if I'm wrong? What if I take a chance and– and ruin everything? She’s my best friend, Neil.’

‘No need to rush. Why don't you just wait, see what happens?’

Serena nods, sighs.

‘And in the meantime,’ he adds, standing up and gently pulling her with him, ‘do you think you can bear to dance with me?’

‘I've rather neglected you, haven't I? I'm sorry.’

‘Don't be,’ Neil smiles, leading her into a foxtrot. ‘Knew I wouldn't be lucky enough to hold on to you forever. And the two of you don't half look good together, dance well together.’

‘Do you– do you really think so?’

Neil nods. ‘Even if she has stolen my favourite partner,’ he teases.

‘I love dancing with her,’ Serena admits softly. ‘I mean, I love dancing with you, you know I do. But with Bernie it feels – oh, I don't know.’

‘Right?’ Neil suggests.

‘Yes,’ she sighs. ‘It's like that in theatre too,’ she adds.

Neil smiles, thinks of his wife. ‘Don't give up,’ he murmurs. ‘It'll come right in the end, Serena.’

‘Will it?’

‘She looks at you like you look at her. It'll come right, my dear,’ he repeats, squeezing her fingers.

*          *          *

Bernie's half way across town when she changes her mind, drives all the way around the roundabout and doubles back on herself, drives home and pours herself a shot of whiskey.

 _I can't do it,_ she thinks. _I can't be that close to her, not yet_.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:  
> Quickstep - [Tu Vuò Fà L'Americano](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YVNPJY2PeUY)

At lunchtime the next day Bernie walks in on Raf and Morven practicing their quickstep in the break room. She leans against the doorframe, hands in her pockets, watches with a slight frown of concentration, applauds when they come to a breathless halt.

‘We're both on a break,’ Morven says hurriedly.

Bernie holds up her hands. ‘No complaints from me.’

‘So, what do you think?’ Raf asks.

‘I think AAU’s in pretty safe hands,’ Bernie smiles. ‘You might just want to–’

‘What?’

Bernie presses her lips together, considering. _Is it worth it?_

Her competitive nature wins out. She might not be dancing, but she can still do something to help. Can still do her best to give this to Serena, even if she’s made a mess of everything else.

‘Try smaller steps in the fishtail. And don't look at your feet, it won't make them go in the right place,’ she adds. ‘And keep your top line steady. It should be a bit like a swan – lots of activity underneath but smooth on top. May I?’ she asks, holding out a hand to Morven.

‘Um, yes, yes of course.’

Bernie takes Morven in hold, leads her in a sequence of basics and lock steps.

‘Eyes up and to the right,’ she admonishes. ‘See how there's no rise and fall?’ she asks Raf.

A spin turn as if around a corner, a lock step and then into a fishtail, her own tiny steps forcing Morven’s smaller too, then back into a basic before she stops and lets her go.

‘You can dance?’ Morven asks in disbelief.

‘A little,’ Bernie lies.

‘Well, why aren't you entering?’ Raf asks. ‘We'd stand a much better chance with someone who actually knows what they're doing on our team.’

‘Oh, you were already taken, Mr di Lucca,’ Bernie replies with a smile. ‘Now, back to it – AAU is depending on you two.’

‘Yes sah!’ Morven grins, saluting.

‘Oh, and not a word to anyone else. I'll never get any work done if this becomes common knowledge.’

‘Your secret’s safe with us,’ Raf smiles. ‘We're hardly going to share our advantage, after all.’

Bernie turns on her heel and saunters out, then walks quickly to the bathroom, locks herself into a cubicle and leans against the door with a sigh. She realises she's trembling, clenches her fists and jams them into her pockets. Takes a few deep breaths, focuses on the press of short nails into her palms. She spent all of last night longing to be dancing with Serena, cursing herself for ruining what they had; dancing with Morven, however briefly, however different it felt, was just a little too close to what she can't have, what she desperately wants.

When she steps back onto the ward she walks straight into someone, knows who it is as soon as she grips their arm to steady them. Their eyes meet and for a moment Bernie freezes, the feel of Serena against her so familiar. Then she remembers what happened, what she's done to them, pulls her hand away and mutters an apology.

It isn't until later that she realises Serena didn't flinch from her touch, didn't step away, didn't look at her reproachfully. Even looked like maybe she was comfortable, like she too longed to be close.

 _No,_ she scolds herself. _You saw how she was, she doesn't want you._

She doesn’t have much of her shift left, manages to avoid Serena for the rest of it. Can’t quite stop her eyes seeking her out across the ward, though.

*          *          *

The following weeks see a flurry of dance-related activity around the hospital. Serena watches Raf practice a sequence of running steps down the corridor, notes with relief that he appears to be pretty good even as she feels a pang at the memory of dancing a similar set of steps with Bernie. Walks in on Lou and the pharmacist who's stepped in to take Fletch’s place walking through a jive.

 _At least they're trying,_ she thinks with a grimace. _If only I could give points for effort._

*

Called up to Keller for a consult, Bernie watches with a small smile as Dom runs over and over a cha cha step at the desk, becoming increasingly frustrated when he can't get it right.

‘Having trouble, Dr. Copeland?’ she asks innocently.

‘Unless you're either going to help me or join the rest of us in making utter fools of ourselves then you can piss right off,’ he grumbles.

‘Taking this a little seriously, aren't we?’

Dom just scowls. For a moment Bernie considers showing him where he's going wrong – it's almost painful seeing the mess he's making. And then she remembers that this is a competition, and while he might be a friend he's on an opposing team.

‘I'll leave you to it, then,’ she says, heading back down to AAU.

Later that evening, when Serena has gone to take care of the Fletchlings, Bernie persuades Raf to run through his steps for her in the office.

‘Might take your mind off things?’ she suggests when he's hesitant.

‘It just seems wrong to be thinking about something so trivial when Fletch is lying there.’

‘We can't do anything for him at the moment. And the reputation of the ward is at stake, Mr di Lucca. I hardly think Fletch would want you to give up because you're worried about him.’

‘You're right,’ Raf says, managing a smile. ‘And any more pointers would be much appreciated.’

‘Anything for team AAU,’ Bernie smiles. And then promptly has to push thoughts of Serena, of the fact that were it not for her late shift and Serena’s unexpected babysitting and her own stupid impulsiveness they could be dancing together this evening, from her mind.

*

It’s like an intricate dance between them on the ward when they’re on shift at the same time, albeit one where they avoid being in each other’s space. Never too close if they’re both needed at a patient’s bedside, always at least six inches of space between them. A step back if the other takes a step forward, moving aside to let the other pass without the need to touch.

 _Still in sync,_ Serena thinks wryly. _Still following each other’s leads._

*

On one of their few shared shifts Bernie and Serena are walking down the corridor side by side, the now normal six inches of space between them, and glance into the break room to see Raf and Morven dancing again. Bernie's glad to see Raf putting some of her advice into practice, fights the urge to take Serena in her arms and show them just what it could look like. Doesn't know that beside her Serena is doing the same.

‘It's amazing any patients are getting seen,’ Bernie murmurs.

‘Indeed,’ Serena replies quietly. ‘Still it's, uh, it's nice to see everyone enjoying dancing so much.’

‘Yes,’ Bernie says softly, risking a glance at Serena. _I miss dancing with you,_ she wants to say. _I'm desperate to hold you again. Being surrounded by all this dancing is torture._

Serena looks around as if she feels her gaze, eyes meeting for a moment. Bernie's certain she must be imagining things but Serena seems to lean towards her slightly, her fingers seem to flicker as if they're going to reach for her. And then she looks away and continues on down the corridor leaving Bernie to stride after her, shaking her head to rid herself of the longing filling her, gripping her file tighter and slipping her free hand safely into her pocket.

*

They don’t operate together much (difficult to be in theatre together if they aren’t even on the ward, in the hospital, at the same time) but when a trauma comes in and Bernie calls for her she’s there, just as before, determined that this isn’t going to get in the way of what they do best, what people rely on them for.

For all that it’s been stilted and awkward everywhere else, theatre is almost like normal, almost like it always was _before_. The urgency of the trauma pushes all other thoughts from Serena’s mind: no time to think of anything but the body open between them, the blood pooling around their fingers, finding the tear and fixing it before it’s too late.

They manage, they save a life. And then they scrub out side by side, Morven chattering away about how awesome they were, and their eyes catch and spark and neither can prevent a smile.

 _Maybe confining it to theatre won’t be so bad,_ Serena thinks. _If we could just get everything else back too, maybe that would be enough._

She ignores the ache in her chest when she thinks of the last trauma surgery they performed together, banishes the memory of Bernie’s lips on hers, allows herself one longing gaze at Bernie’s back when she leaves the scrub room and then forces herself back to reality.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:  
> Foxtrot - [I Was Made For Loving You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IY1TBt5tyRI)  
> Waltz - [Come Away With Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lbjZPFBD6JU&spfreload=10)

‘Are you, uh– are you dancing tonight?’ Bernie asks tentatively, looking at Serena from under her fringe.

‘If I don't get caught up here,’ Serena replies. ‘Are you?’ She looks up, straight into Bernie's eyes, warm and hopeful and worried.

‘If that's ok.’

‘Of course,’ Serena smiles.

Their eyes hold until Morven knocks on the door and they both look away sharply, Serena at Morven and Bernie at her computer.

 _If I'd known all it would take was teasing Ric together I'd have found a way to get him down here myself,_ Serena thinks. She casts another glance at Bernie as she leaves, lets her gaze caress her hair, her face, her arms. Feels a thrill of excitement at the prospect of being in those arms again.

The day can't go fast enough.

*

Bernie feels a thrill of excitement too, accompanied by nerves, and a terror that she'll put her foot ( _lips_ ) in it again. That she won't be able to touch Serena without it being obvious that she still wants her, still wants to kiss her. That she won't be able to touch her without kissing her.

She's jittery for the rest of the afternoon, jumps every time someone speaks without her seeing them approach. Her eyes flick to Serena and slip away again and again. Several times their gazes catch and hold and Bernie feels like the air is being sucked from her lungs and her stomach has dropped to her toes.

 _I can't go,_ she thinks later, panicking. She's been doing so well. Yesterday everything felt almost normal between them, this morning she thought she was over the worst of it and that they were going to be fine. _I can't dance with her. How can I hold her like that, be pressed against her, when I still want to kiss her?_

_I can't do it._

And then, on her way out, Serena smiles brightly. ‘I'll see you later then,’ she murmurs.

‘Yes,’ Bernie manages. And she knows she's going to go because Serena's looking forward to it so much, and she hasn't exactly been doing a lot to make Serena smile recently and – well, she'd do pretty much anything to make Serena happy again, to make Serena happy around _her_ again.

She does linger a little past the end of her shift, though. Just in case the red phone rings and gives her an excuse. She can't quite decide if she wants one or not. Either way it doesn't happen.

*          *          *

Bernie's gaze skitters around the room uncertainly, lands on Serena and slips away, then back to her again through the veil of her fringe. She's talking to Neil, looking away from the door, and Bernie allows herself the luxury of studying her for a moment.

 _How is she so gorgeous?_ she thinks, before reining herself in with a deep breath and a straightening of her spine, forcing herself to look away so she can walk around the edge of the room without knocking into anyone.

And then Serena glances up and Bernie feels the heat of her gaze, looks at her and promptly walks into Helena.

‘Sorry,’ she mutters.

‘Not to worry,’ Helena smiles. ‘Are you alright? Haven't seen you for a while, we've missed you.’

‘Work’s been busy,’ Bernie replies, with a brief press of lips that almost passes for a smile.

‘Serena's missed you,’ Helena adds quietly.

‘Really?’

Helena nods.

‘But we, uh– we've still been seeing each other at work.’

‘Not the same though, is it?’

‘No,’ Bernie agrees. ‘No, it's not.’

They both turn slightly to look at Serena. Ostensibly she's listening to a conversation between Martin on one side of her and Neil on the other but it's clear that she's distracted. Her eyes keep drifting across the room to Bernie and then down to her lap, and Neil has to touch her arm to get her attention when they're left waiting for her to respond.

‘If you're as good a partnership at work as you are dancing then your patients are very lucky indeed.’

‘I have a horrible feeling I might have made a mess of everything,’ Bernie murmurs.

‘Messes can be tidied.’

‘All of them?’

Helena watches as their eyes meet again, sees the longing on both of their faces. ‘I don't think this one’s as big a mess as you think. Go on, ask her to dance and take it from there, hm? You won't know unless you try.’

Bernie tears her gaze from Serena and looks at Helena. ‘Thank you.’

‘You're very welcome.’

*

Bernie sits on Neil's other side, smiles a greeting and sets to changing her shoes. For once she's glad of the frayed straps and tiny buckles, grateful to have a little extra time to try and get her racing heart under control, to try and muster up the courage and willpower she needs to dance with Serena. To not think about the last time they held each other, on the floor of the theatre, hands grasping desperately, Serena's lips warm and soft against hers.

 _You're not helping,_ she scolds herself.

In the end Serena beats her to it, stands before her and holds out her hands with one eyebrow raised in question. The smile that lights her face when Bernie accepts makes her heart sing, makes her determined to ignore the thrill when they touch, when skin slides against skin and fingers gently grip.

 _Friends,_ she thinks firmly as Serena leads her into a foxtrot. _Friends._

*

It's never been this stilted and awkward between them, not even the first time they danced. They're in an open hold, a clear six inches of space between them, bodies tense and rigid, the connection between them broken. There are fluffed and missed leads, missteps and trodden on toes. It feels like neither of them has danced before, let alone with each other. Like the last four months have never happened.

Bernie feels her heart clench. _Look what you've done. You've ruined it, ruined everything._

‘Oh, this is silly,’ Serena mutters eventually. And for a split second Bernie thinks she's about to let her go, to stalk off and leave her abandoned on the dance floor.

But she doesn't. What she actually does is shift closer, draw Bernie closer, press them against each other. Bernie gasps, with surprise and desire. So does Serena.

And then, after a moment of stiffness, they both sigh.

‘Better,’ Serena murmurs.

And despite the thrumming of arousal and anxiety Bernie nods and hums in agreement. ‘I've missed you,’ she whispers. ‘This.’

‘Me too,’ Serena replies, fingers lightly squeezing Bernie's.

*

By the end of the night it's like old times. Neil watches them waltz with a small smile. Serena is radiant again and the tension has dropped from Bernie's frame, leaving them light on their feet as they whisk and weave and turn. They're on the opposite side of the floor to Martin and Helena, and Neil isn't sure which couple looks most in love.

*

‘We're alright, aren't we?’ Serena asks, smiling, when they sit to change their shoes at the end of the night. It's been a joy, dancing with Bernie again. Even if she has spent quite a large proportion of the time reminding herself that they are just friends, that she can’t give in to the urge to kiss her. That aside, it's been a comfort. Just like yesterday at work the bubbling sexual chemistry between them has been overlaid by familiarity, by the rekindling of their partnership.

 _If this is all I can have of her,_ Serena thinks. _If this is it – well, it's not at all bad really, is it?_

_But more – oh, more would be–_

‘I'd say so,’ Bernie replies, interrupting her musing.

Serena looks at her: she's smiling too, her eyes warm and soft as ever. And still with that same glow, that same light as before. The one that makes Serena almost certain she isn't the only one who wants more.

‘Sure you can't get out of judging tomorrow?’

‘If only,’ Serena laughs. ‘You'll be there, won't you? To cheer our team on?’

‘Wouldn't miss it for the world. Or the champagne when we wipe the floor with Keller,’ she adds, smirking.

‘Glad to hear it,’ Serena smiles, taking Bernie's outstretched hand and rising from her chair. ‘That's, um, that's not what I meant though,’ she adds softly.

‘Oh?’ Bernie meets her eye, and searches. ‘Oh.’

She's silent, and Serena thinks that maybe she's misjudged the whole evening, misjudged Bernie. But she's still grasping her hand, shows no sign of letting go.

‘Of course we are,’ she says eventually.

They only break eye contact, only drop their hands, when Martin interrupts them to say goodbye. And then only reluctantly.

*

They walk out together, across the car park, so close their arms are touching.

 _Nothing has changed,_ Serena thinks. _Other than that I know now how her lips feel against mine as well as how her arms feel around me._

They reach Bernie's car first, turn to each other, eyes meeting again. Time seems to stand still, the world suspended between heartbeats. Serena isn't even sure that she breathes.

 _It would be so easy,_ she thinks, body canting towards Bernie of its own accord. _Would it really be so terrible to kiss her goodnight?_

And then she remembers how skittish Bernie has been around her up until yesterday. Blinks and clears her throat.

_No rush. It's not like either of us is going anywhere._

‘Well I'll, uh– I'll see you tomorrow then.’

‘Yes,’ Bernie smiles. And is that a hint of disappointment Serena can see in her eyes? ‘Goodnight, Serena.’

‘Goodnight.’

Serena forces herself to turn and walk away. Bernie watches, leans against her car with a smile still on her lips.

 _We're ok,_ she thinks. _I can do this. I can be her friend._

_Even if I am desperate to kiss her again._


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:  
> Quickstep - [Tu Vuò Fà L'Americano](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YVNPJY2PeUY)  
> Cha cha - [Mercy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y7ZEVA5dy-Y&spfreload=10)  
> Waltz - [Weekend In New England](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RRWMixC5jpQ&spfreload=10)  
> Waltz - [Bring On The Wonder](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zb0x4_2xocY&spfreload=10)

The red phone goes at ten to seven. Their eyes meet across the office, and they both sigh deeply. It's been a pretty quiet day, sod’s law that it should ring now.

‘I can handle this,’ Bernie says.

Serena shakes her head just as Raf sticks his around the door and relays the details to them. ‘ETA four and a half minutes,’ he finishes. ‘Need me to scrub in?’

‘No, I'll stay and assist,’ Serena says before Bernie can open her mouth. ‘You and Morven go – AAU is depending on you two.’

‘But you're meant to be judging,’ Bernie protests.

‘Oh, Henrik can find someone else,’ she replies firmly. ‘Go on, Raf. Do us proud.’

‘We'll try our best,’ he smiles.

‘You don't need to stay,’ Bernie says when he's gone, as Serena rises and starts for the door. ‘I can get someone else to scrub in with me.’

Serena turns, meets her eye. ‘I'd much rather be in theatre with you than watching our colleagues attempting to dance,’ she smiles. ‘Come on, Ms Wolfe. Maybe we won't miss the entire show.’

*

They slip in towards the end of the contest, straight from theatre and still in their scrubs, just as Raf and Morven take to the floor. Bernie is pleased to see that some of her advice has stuck, even with the nerves. They both cheer and applaud loudly when they finish, and Fletch (Serena's replacement, apparently) awards them a perfect ten.

They’re followed by Dom and Essie, their cha cha full of so much energy that no one else seems to spot the mistakes. Apart from Serena, who fails to hide her grimace when Dom stumbles over the step Bernie caught him obsessively practicing.

The final couple is a registrar and anaesthetist from Darwin, waltzing to Barry Manilow. Bernie's eyes drift from the dance floor to the group from Keller, then to the scoreboard, then back again.

‘Keller are winning,’ she mutters to Serena.

‘Look at Ric,’ she replies. ‘So smug. God, he'll be insufferable.’

‘They all will.’ They watch as Dom and Essie high five, and Bernie's jaw sets. ‘Can't have that. Not without a fight.’

‘Where are you going?’ Serena hisses as Bernie leaves her side and edges around the room to the judges’ table. She has a horrible sinking feeling that she knows, that Bernie's competitive edge has got the better of her, but she's moving far too fast for Serena to stop her. She watches helplessly as Bernie leans to whisper to Hanssen, as she scribbles something on a piece of paper, as she slips off her shoes and pointedly ignores Fletch’s curious frown.

Serena closes her eyes, take a few deep breaths, slips off her shoes too: nonslip might be great for on the ward but they would be terrible for dancing, and really what else could Bernie possibly have in mind?

 _Exasperating woman,_ she thinks, trying to calm her racing heart, running a shaking hand through her cap-flattened hair. _My life was much quieter before Berenice bloody Wolfe exploded into it._ She opens her eyes, glances across to where Bernie is standing with her hands clasped, staring at her feet. _Much emptier, though,_ she concedes.

‘And now a last minute entry from AAU,’ Hanssen announces, cutting short the celebrations from Keller.

The room falls silent, everyone looking around curiously. The opening chords take Serena back to the first time they ever danced, to that night they spent out together, the first time they danced in close hold. She waits, watches as Bernie steps onto the floor alone and makes a show of looking around the room, clearly searching the crowd for her partner. Hears the rippling murmurs of surprise, the whispered questions.

And then Bernie is in front of her, holding out her hand, eyes fixed on hers and full of hope. ‘Trust me?’ she murmurs.

Serena nods, slips her hand into Bernie's, allows herself to be led onto the floor.

Bernie doesn't draw her closer, just keeps hold of her right hand. ‘Keep your eyes on me.’

Serena nods again. The room around them fades away, and all there is is Bernie in front of her, Bernie's hand holding hers, Bernie's eyes gazing into hers, the familiar music filling her ears.

Through the quiet first verse she follows the tiny, almost hesitant box steps from only the slightest push and pull of Bernie's fingers, from whatever it is in her eyes that has always told her what Bernie is going to do, what Bernie needs her to do. And then gentle pressure takes her into a whisk, and Bernie's free hand comes to rest on her back, and Serena's automatically rises to Bernie's arm as they chassé. The music swells gently, and on the other side of a spin turn they're somehow pressed together.

 _Like we should be,_ Serena thinks.

And it doesn't matter that they're surrounded by colleagues, that her hobby is no longer a secret, that they will doubtless hear of nothing else on the grapevine for weeks. That how they feel about each other is surely clear to everyone watching. No, all that matters – all that there _is_ – is the music, the dance, Bernie.

They cover the floor with long, driving, elegant steps, rising and falling together. Whisk and weave, double reverse spin after double reverse spin. A hesitation just _there_ , just where it fits the music, the sequence of chassé, lockstep, step through and turn that they always follow it with.

There's a lull in the music here and Serena feels Bernie loosen her hold, follows suit to put a little space between them, to meet her eye. Basics and natural turn, gazes locked, a few bars of calm. Serena doesn't know how but she knows what Bernie's about to do. Knows exactly what she would do next if she were leading, how she would try and match the music, what would look most impressive. They draw close again, hips pressed together, upper bodies leaning away slightly, Bernie's hand secure on her back.

And then, as the music swells, all soaring strings and harmonies, they pivot around, spinning and spinning until they're only still upright by the grace of their arms around each other, the strength of their hold and frames, the certain knowledge that neither of them is going to let go.

They finish in the centre of the floor, small steps again but now with no space between them, with the sides of their heads touching and their eyes closed.

There's a moment of silence, a moment when all Serena can hear is her own heart and Bernie's breath inches from her ear. And then the room around them erupts into cheers and applause.

‘I could kill you,’ Serena murmurs.

Bernie shifts, just far enough that they can look at each other. ‘But you won't,’ she says, eyes glinting, lips pressed together to keep a grin from spreading across her face.

Bernie tugs her hand so they're side by side, bows and then gestures to Serena with a flourish; she blushes and dips a curtsy, of a sort.

‘Won't I?’ Serena mutters through her smile.

‘Not when AAU wins.’

*

Their perfect score does indeed put AAU’s average above Keller’s, much to Dom’s disgust. After celebratory champagne they all head to Albie's and Bernie and Serena sit side by side, touching from shoulder to knee, surrounded by their colleagues, fielding questions about dancing and what other hidden talents the pair of them might have.

Ric watches over the rim of his glass as Serena holds court, as her fingers brush Bernie's arm when she gestures, as their eyes meet and spark and they bask in the glow of their success. He wonders if anything has happened between them since Serena's confession last week, is almost certain it must have because just look at them.

Serena glances across and catches his eye, her smile brilliant. She blushes slightly when he winks, but the smile doesn't fade.

 _A l’amour,_ he thinks, raising his glass in a silent toast, and determines to get in touch with Françoise over the weekend.

*          *          *

The following afternoon Bernie's pottering around her flat, gathering a week’s worth of discarded clothes from her bedroom floor and stuffing the first load into the washing machine, when her phone buzzes on the kitchen counter. It vibrates its way over the edge and drops to the floor before she can reach it. She swears, extricates herself from the tangle of laundry and picks it up before it goes to voicemail. It's Serena.

‘How's the head?’ she teases, sitting on the lino with her back against the cupboard door.

‘Just fine, thank you. Are you, uh, are you busy this evening?’

‘Well that rather depends on what you had in mind.’

‘Jason wondered – well, I mean I – we both, Jason and I, wondered if you'd like to come round for dinner and to, uh, to watch _Strictly_ with us. It's fine if you don't,’ she rushes on before Bernie can answer. ‘It's just he's been reading up on ballroom and he's, well, rather impressed we managed to win, to be honest, and he's probably going to have lots of questions and–’

‘Serena?’ Bernie interrupts.

‘Yes?’ she breathes.

‘I'd really like that.’

‘You– you would?’

‘Yes,’ Bernie says firmly. ‘Will I need to bring my dance shoes to offer demonstrations?’

‘Ha, I think we rather proved last night that we don't need the right shoes, don't you?’

‘I'm sorry, Serena,’ Bernie murmurs, flooding with guilt. ‘You asked me not to tell anyone and then I– well, I blew that, didn't I?’

‘Hush, you,’ Serena says softly, and Bernie can hear her smile. ‘So, tonight?’

‘I'll be there,’ Bernie promises, wondering again at grudge-bearing Serena's seemingly limitless capacity to forgive her. ‘And I'll bring the wine,’ she adds, drawing a laugh from the other end of the phone that makes her stomach flip.

*

They sit at opposite ends of the sofa, Serena curled up and Bernie with her legs stretched out between them. After each dance Jason listens to what the judges have to say, then turns to them and offers his own – rather more detailed and less generous – critique, insists on them both giving their own opinions too. When he returns his attention to the screen their eyes catch and they both have to suppress giggles.

By half way through the show Bernie's feet have somehow ended up in Serena's lap, Serena's fingers gently pressing into her arches and caressing her ankles. To her surprise Bernie's skin doesn't feel alight at her touch. There's an edge of want, as there is every time she feels Serena's skin against hers, but it's nothing compared to the sense of belonging that fills her. She sighs happily, smiles when Serena looks at her with eyebrows raised in question, settles herself more comfortably into the cushions and feels herself relax.

She doesn't feel alight, that is, until Serena's fingers sneak higher, up her Achilles tendon, as far under the hem of her trousers as she can reach. Bernie stifles a gasp, forces herself to keep her gaze fixed on the TV. Doesn't realise Serena keeps glancing at her with darkened eyes. Doesn't realise that Serena's heart is thudding too, Serena's skin is tingling, Serena's blood is fizzing.

*

When it's over, Jason offers his alternative leaderboard and then stands to head up to his room.

‘I like watching with you, Bernie’ he says, pausing in the doorway. ‘You should come over every Saturday.’

‘I'd like that, Jason,’ Bernie smiles. ‘If it's ok with Auntie Serena, that is.’

‘Definitely,’ Serena replies, her warm hand tightening around Bernie's ankle for a moment.

Bernie dares to look at her, sees her soft smile and the crinkling around her eyes. Determines even more firmly to push away her desire, the yearning filling her heart, for the sake of smiles like that.

‘Good,’ says Jason. And he leaves the room, leaves them alone together.

‘Tea?’ Serena suggests.

‘Hm,’ Bernie smiles.

Serena's fingers trail across her skin one last time before she carefully moves Bernie's feet to the sofa and gets up. Bernie closes her eyes, focuses on her breathing. Listens to the mundane sounds of the kettle, the opening and closing of cupboards, the chink of spoon on china.

 _It would be so easy,_ she thinks, _to follow her. To sneak up behind her, slip my arms around her waist, press my lips to her neck._

She can almost picture it, imagines Serena tilting her head to offer better access to her skin, Serena arching into her, grasping her hands, twisting in her arms to kiss her lips.

She's brought back to reality by the soft thud when Serena sets her mug on the coffee table. Hopes the flush heating her cheeks isn't too obvious.

*

In the kitchen, as the kettle boils, Serena grips the edge of the counter so hard her knuckles whiten. Her other hand rises to fiddle with her necklace, pulling the pendant back and forth along the chain with a quiet rasp.

 _She could follow me,_ she thinks. _I wouldn't hear her, wouldn't know she was here until she touched me._

She makes the tea, pours water and then splashes of milk with an almost steady hand.

Carries the two mugs into the living room.

_I could sit closer. Look at her – those eyes, that blush. Oh, has she been thinking the same things as me?_

Bernie shifts, draws her legs – _so long, go on for bloody miles, especially in those jeans –_ away from where Serena had been sitting to tuck them under herself.

 _Does she not trust herself?_ Serena wonders, the possibility exhilarating. _Is the thought of me touching her too much?_

Bernie reaches for her tea, blows across the surface before taking a sip. A tiny sound of approval escapes her throat: Serena knows just how she likes her tea, gets it right every time.

Serena sinks down beside her. Instead of curling up like she had earlier she sits with her back to the arm of the sofa, legs stretched across the space between them so her toes just nudge Bernie's. She raises her mug to her lips, gazes at Bernie over the top of it, through the steam; there's a tension in her shoulders, but she doesn't pull away from the contact.

 _Like she's fighting herself,_ Serena muses.

She shifts, stretches a little further so her toes slide along the top of Bernie's foot. Hears her sharp intake of breath, sees the hand holding her mug jerk.

 _Give in,_ she urges. _Oh, just give in to it. Can't you tell I want it too?_

But she doesn't. They drink their tea and chat quietly, until Bernie announces that she should go, that she needs to get another load of washing on and do some ironing so she has clothes for her shift tomorrow.

‘What?’ she says, when Serena looks at her incredulously. ‘I may not be Maria von Trapp but I am _slightly_ domesticated.’

At the door, Serena inside and Bernie out, their eyes lock. Serena reaches for Bernie's hand, leans close and kisses her cheek. This time Bernie lets her lips brush Serena's skin too, lingers there longer than is necessary, longer than she should. Lets her free hand grasp Serena's elbow. She touches her much more – well, _intimately_ – on the dance floor, yet somehow even this feels illicit.

Eventually Bernie draws back. And is that longing she sees in Serena's eyes, a mirror of what she's trying to hide in her own?

‘Goodnight, Serena,’ she says softly.

And oh, is that disappointment? _No. No, it can't be. It isn't._

‘Goodnight, Bernie,’ she replies, fingers only slipping from hers reluctantly. ‘Sleep well.’

‘You too,’ Bernie says with a small smile. She hesitates then makes herself walk away down the path, turning her head a little more forcefully than necessary to try and dislodge the yearning.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:  
> Rumba - [Something Stupid](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f43nR8Wu_1Y&spfreload=10)  
> Waltz - [Bring On The Wonder](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zb0x4_2xocY&spfreload=10)

Serena doesn't go dancing the week Bernie leaves. It's only been two days. Two days since she kissed her, begged her not to leave, made a fool of herself in front of the entire ward. Two days of whispers and looks, two nights of eventually crying herself to sleep at two in the morning after finishing a bottle of Shiraz by herself.

And the most foolish thing of all? She'd do it all again, do more, do anything that might have kept her here.

 _Why didn't I just kiss her?_ Serena thinks. _After we danced, after_ Strictly _, after we had dinner on Monday. Any bloody time before that bloody morning._

She stays late instead, because Jason won't be back until almost bedtime so no need to get home. Steadily works through the stack of paperwork on her desk. Only realises she hasn't eaten since half a sandwich at lunch when her stomach growls loudly. She expects to hear a snort of laughter from the other side of the room. When the silence reminds her that she's alone, abandoned, her stomach twists, hunger turning to nausea.

Her phone pings. She grabs at it, fingers fumbling in her haste to see who it is ( _her, please let it be her_ ).

But it's Neil, asking where she is. She swallows hard against tears, pinches the bridge of her nose, sighs. Sends a brief reply saying she's not feeling well (not a lie, not really. She does feel terrible). Tries to return to her work but the words are swimming before her eyes and the pen shakes in her hand. She barely resists the urge to throw it across the room. Instead she sets it down, rests her head in her hands and closes her eyes, focuses on her breathing until the world no longer feels like it's spinning around her.

Time to go home. She can pick up Thai on the way, sit in front of the TV to eat, distract herself long enough to get at least a little food inside her. Smile and pay attention to Jason when he gets in.

Jason. She stops, hand on the door. He doesn't know she's gone. She'll have to tell him. She sighs heavily, blinks away more tears. There goes any hope of a decent sleep tonight, then.

*

He's full of questions, of course. Where has she gone, to do what, for how long, why, can he email her about _Strictly_? It's the last one that hurts the most, that makes her breath catch in her throat, makes her snap at him that 'that's quite enough, thank you Jason'.

'I've upset you,' he says sadly, frowning.

'No, no Jason, I'm sorry,' she says quickly, flooding with guilt. 'I just– I didn't want her to go,' she sighs.

'You're angry with her.'

'Yes.'

'Because she's not here to watch _Strictly_ with us like she promised?'

She manages a weak smile. 'Among other things.'

'We can still watch it together though, can't we?'

'Yes Jason, of course we can,' she says, even though the mere thought of it makes her chest ache.

'Ok. I'm going to bed. Goodnight, Auntie Serena.'

'Goodnight.'

She can't sit on the sofa any longer. Not now she's been forcibly reminded of sitting here with Bernie beside her.

 _Should've kissed her before_ , she thinks again.

So she goes upstairs, changes into her pyjamas, climbs into bed. Stares at the ceiling for a while, then begins to silently recite the bones in the human body because damn it, she needs something other than Bernie to focus on if she's going to stand a chance of getting any sleep tonight.

But every bone makes her think of Bernie. Of fractures they've treated, x-rays they've studied. Of her thumbs rubbing circles up Bernie's spine, her hand caressing Bernie's ankle. Of Bernie's cheekbones, Bernie's fingers, long and slender and skilled and–

She growls into the darkness. _Not helping._

Flowers, then. That's safe. Bernie has never displayed any interest is horticulture, has never given her flowers. No associations.

 _Alstroemeria, amaryllis, allium. Begonia, busy Lizzy, bluebell. Crocus, clematis, chrysanthemum. Daffodil, dahlia, dog rose._ By the time she reaches _lisianthus, lily, marigold, magnolia_ her eyelids are drooping, her mind beginning to wander away into nothingness. _Primrose, petunia, phalaenopsis_ take quite some time. _Violet, viola_ never make it.

She dreams of Bernie. Of whirling in a glittering, crowded ballroom, everything around them a blur of colour and noise. The only thing in focus is Bernie's face, Bernie's ridiculous laugh.

All she remembers when she wakes is the feeling of strong arms around her, of a soft, warm body pressed against hers.

 _No prizes for guessing whose,_ she thinks.

*          *          *

‘You should go dancing tomorrow, Auntie Serena,’ Jason says, one Wednesday, weeks after Bernie left, days after Imelda’s visit and Hanssen telling her Bernie has chosen to stay away. Days after she decided to let go of her anger (some of it, at least), to let go of her pride, to reach out to her.

They're watching _It Takes Two_. Jason has been religiously recording every episode, has slotted it in to his TV schedule. Serena sits with him when he asks her to – it makes him happy, and she has learnt that it's best to avoid rows wherever possible. And while it doesn't make _her_ happy, it at least isn't as bad as Saturday nights. A small mercy to be grateful for, she supposes.

‘Should I?’ she asks with a fond smile.

‘Yes. You're grumpy, and dancing always makes you happy,’ he says simply.

‘I've been busy and tired,’ she says. ‘What with being understaffed.’

It's true, entirely: with a consultant missing she has more work, more pressure. She hadn't quite realised how much she had come to depend on Bernie at work, how much easier life had become when she could share the load of leading.

‘You were busy before and still made time to go,’ Jason points out, ever logical.

‘Yes,’ she admits.

 _But not the entire truth_ , she thinks with an internal sigh. No, however much she tries to deny it she knows precisely what the real reason she's been staying away is: Berenice bloody Wolfe.

‘Please, Auntie Serena? Coffee isn't making you less grumpy, maybe dancing will.’

‘I'll think about it,’ she promises.

And later, lying in bed, she does. _Am I really going to let her dictate my life? She was the one who chose to leave. And now I've got in touch, offered an olive branch. I'll hear from her soon, she'll come back._ She sighs, rolls over and pulls the covers tighter around herself. _I have missed it, missed my friends. Oh, maybe he's right._

*

She ends up going straight from work, thanks to a last minute surgery, is glad she thought to put her shoes in the boot this morning just in case.

 _Probably a good job,_ she thinks wryly. _Not sure I'd have left the house without Jason actually pushing me out of the door._

She feels a tug at her heart as she steps inside, hears the music and chatter. Steels herself against it, like she does every morning when she arrives at work.

_You can do this._

Neil’s smile when he sees her is the first thing to make her properly happy since Bernie left. She leans gratefully into his embrace, silences his questions with a wave of her hand and a shake of her head, not ready to talk about it just yet.

‘It's good to see you,’ he says softly.

‘And you,’ she replies. ‘I'm sorry.’

He shakes his head, waits for her to buckle her second shoe and then offers his hand. She takes a deep breath, determines to push Bernie to the back of her mind and enjoy dancing with her friend, as she did for so many years before Berenice bloody Wolfe appeared on the scene. Tries not to remember how Bernie's arms felt around her, to focus on how Neil's feel now, in this moment.

*

She does well, makes it through a handful of dances with nothing more than the ache in her chest which has been a near constant companion these past weeks.

And then a rumba. She's trying so hard to focus on her partner rather than on thoughts of Bernie – of _that_ rumba and what happened afterwards – that she isn't really listening to the music beyond where the beat is (because her partner isn't paying much attention to that, and one of them has to). But a line filters through, and for a moment her step falters: ‘And then I go and spoil it all by saying something stupid like I love you’.

She takes a breath, another. Her partner hasn't noticed. On with the dance. She forces herself to push through it, through the pain, through the threatening tears – just as she does every time someone or something at work reminds her of Bernie. And she manages just fine, thank you very much. Manages a foxtrot, a tango back with Neil. Thinks that she's going to be alright, that she can do this.

But then the record changes and it's their waltz, and suddenly she can't any more.

‘Would you excuse me, I– I'm not feeling well all of a sudden.’

She turns on her heel before Neil can respond, slips her hand from his grasp and gathers her things, hurries from the room without bothering to change her shoes. Manages to hold back the tears until she's safely in her car.

_Why did she have to be a dancer? Why did she have to come here? Do I have nothing left that she hasn't touched?_

Her head snaps up at the sound of the passenger door opening, and she swipes ineffectually at her wet cheeks. Neil silently holds out his arm, and after a moment’s hesitation she rests her head on his shoulder, lets him hold her as she cries into his shirt.

‘I love her,’ she says, quiet but firm. It’s the second time she’s said it out loud, the second time she’s admitted it to another person, and she only feels surer.

‘I know,’ he murmurs.

‘Why does it have to hurt so bloody much?’

*          *          *

Serena wakes suddenly, disorientated. She stares wildly into the darkness, gasping for air. Rubs her eyes with a shaking hand, swallows hard. Just a dream, that’s all. A dream about Bernie – another one. Bernie was beside her, was – oh god, was _inside_ her.

She moans quietly. Now that she pays attention she realises her racing heart isn’t merely from the shock of being ripped from sleep. She huffs, rolls over – and in doing so her thighs press together and it’s enough to tear a gasp from her throat.

 _Berenice bloody Wolfe,_ she thinks, yet again.

She tries to ignore it, tries so hard. But the throbbing between her legs refuses to abate, and she’s been grumpy enough with Jason and at work without adding either further lack of sleep or sexual frustration to the mix.

 _Bernie,_ she thinks, as she slips a hand inside damp knickers, slips her fingers inside herself so easily she has to bite back a groan. Because there’s no point denying it, no point even pretending to think of anyone else.

It doesn’t take long.

 _Must have been a good dream,_ she muses as she drifts back to sleep.

*

Bernie doesn’t reply to her email, or to her texts. Nothing. Not a word.

Serena isn’t going to deny how she feels – she knows, now, is certain she loves her, only becomes more certain with each passing day. And her continuing dreams make the fact that she’s attracted to her impossible to deny. But it’s wearing on her, feeling all of this and getting nothing in return. It hurts, Bernie’s radio silence. She thinks about texting her again – stares at the message thread on her phone several times a day and thinks about it – but she doesn’t want to push, to nag, to grip too tight again and risk losing her to more than a secondment.

(She worries, sometimes, that it’s too late, that Bernie isn’t coming back. Mostly late at night, too far down a bottle of Shiraz. But even that doesn’t stop her loving her. She knows she will still love Bernie if she never sees her again, never kisses her again.)

*

A patient flirts with her. Not an uncommon experience, but it reminds her what it feels like to be admired. It’s Thursday, and she can’t face the thought of either an empty house or going dancing. She decides to go out, to get dressed up and have a drink somewhere other than Albie’s, and flirt with whoever takes her fancy.

She tries her best not to think of Bernie, of eyes catching across the ward, of winks and smiles and the brush of hands. Certainly not of desperate kisses and grasping hands, or arms around her as they dance.

Serena huffs a sigh, sips her wine, tries to focus on the pretty redhead at the bar instead of the growing Bernie-fuelled desire curling in the pit of her belly (again. God, she feels like a hormonal, sex-crazed teenager).

And then: ‘Serena.’

She looks up, startled, to see Robbie.

‘Long time no see,’ he says with a smile, sitting opposite her without waiting for a reply, let alone an invitation.

She isn’t proud of herself for the next thought that pops into her mind but he’s looking at her just like he used to, like he finds her attractive, like he wants her. And maudlin, tipsy and aroused isn’t the best combination for making sensible decisions. She shouldn’t, it isn’t what she really wants, _he_ isn’t what she really wants. But what she really wants is sixteen hundred miles away and there’s no sign of that changing any time soon.

 _And why shouldn’t I have some fun?_ she reasons, shifting so her leg bumps Robbie’s under the table. She finishes her glass, pours another. _More wine first, though._

*

She worries, briefly, when Robbie is buried deep inside her, if there’s a chance she won’t like sex with another woman, because god does she love this. And then she recalls that it’s thinking about Bernie, imagining Bernie in her bed (their office, against the front door, anywhere) that got her into this state.

Even that fleeting thought of Bernie, of her fantasies, is enough to cause a shudder and a moan that have nothing to do with Robbie’s movements. She scolds herself, returns her focus to him. _In the moment, Campbell. Here and now._

She knows she’ll regret it in the morning, knows even before she falls asleep that this was a mistake. She does like Robbie, did enjoy that. But her feelings for Bernie eclipse anything she ever felt for him – anything she’s ever felt for anyone, if she’s honest.

 _I’m in love with her,_ she thinks. _I don’t just love her, I’m_ in _love with her._


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:  
> Quickstep - [Mrs Robinson](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9C1BCAgu2I8)  
> Waltz - [Moon River](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6UoIO4qxJig&spfreload=10)

Bernie came to Kyiv to forget. To forget the light in Serena's eyes when she spoke of love and craziness. To forget the pain in her eyes when she begged her not to go. To forget the feel of Serena's lips against hers, Serena in her arms.

To forget that she – _god_ , that she just might love Serena too. _(Knows she does, can’t quite face it yet, can’t quite find the courage but knows it anyway.)_

She numbs the pain with overwork and exercise and local vodka drunk out of a chipped mug in her tiny apartment. Tries to give her heart time to heal enough that she can think straight ( _ha!_ ), tries to coax the raw edges to knit together, to block out the blinding, searing light of Serena.

*

On Sundays Bernie tortures herself watching clips of the previous night’s _Strictly_ on YouTube.

_I deserve the pain,_ she thinks. _I deserve to hurt like this, more than this._

She makes herself do the laundry first, cleans the fridge of leftover takeaways and takes out the rubbish, then settles on the lumpy sofa with a half glass of Shiraz in her hand. She rolls each tiny, precious sip around her mouth, imagines she's tasting it on Serena's tongue. Wonders what Serena thought of each dance, if she can watch without every step reminding her of them. Wonders what score Jason gave, what his criticisms were. Thinks of how, were it not for her utter cowardice, they could be watching together. How every Saturday night could see them sat side by side, or even curled close, pressed against each other, Serena in her arms.

_Coward,_ she thinks, again and again. _Oh, Serena._

It's the only time she allows herself to think of Serena, this sacred day of exquisite pain between long working weeks. Not the only time she actually thinks of her, of course. It turns out Bernie is incapable of thinking of anything else. Serena is a ghost, haunting her heart. A constant reminder of what they had and what she did and what they could have been. But it’s the only time she lets herself wallow in it, lets herself be submerged under everything she feels. Everything she’s spent her life hiding, hiding _from_ , that Serena has brought rushing to the surface.

There’s a nurse with hair almost exactly the cut and colour of Serena’s, and every time Bernie glimpses her from behind it’s like being punched in the stomach. In theatre she’ll look up and expect her eyes to meet Serena’s beneath that leopard print cap. On the ward she flinches whenever someone touches her arm. Only Serena touches her at work, she's become conditioned to a touch being followed by a smile, a teasing comment, a glint of her eyes. She knows Serena isn't here and yet she can't stop the split second rise of her heart, should be used to the crush when she sees one of her new colleagues but isn't, has to mask pain and disappointment every time.

Serena haunts her. She doesn't know if it's worse when she's in her flat, alone and with nothing to distract her, or when she's at work and every little thing around her tugs at her heart, reminds her of what she's found (and now lost) at Holby. At least there she's kept busy, can lose herself if only for minutes at a time. So she throws herself into it, starts early and finishes late, whips through the tasks she's here for in record time.

Hanssen emails her: ‘I understand you have completed your work. Might I expect to see you back at Holby early?’

She doesn't reply for a whole day, torn between running back to Serena (as she's wanted to do ever since she left, not just the UK but since the moment she stepped off the ward) and staying away.

Cowardice wins out.

‘I'm going to stay a little longer. Still plenty for me to help with.’

‘How is she?’ she wants to add. ‘Please tell me you're looking after her, please tell me I haven't broken her. Please tell me that she misses me too.’

His reply is almost instant. ‘If you are sure that is what you truly want.’

She almost laughs at this. _Does he know?_ she wonders.

*          *          *

The following week an email from Serena lands in her inbox. Bernie stares at it, closes her email account. Reopens it to see that, yes, it is still there, she didn’t imagine it. The subject – ‘What next…?’ – makes her stomach twist, her fingers tremble. She’s decided what she wants, she must have.

_I can’t bear to know. I have to know._

The cursor hovers over it as she tries to find the courage to read Serena’s words, but before she can click to open there’s a tap on her office door, a request for her assistance. Her eyes linger a moment longer and then she pushes herself out of her chair, follows her colleague, forces herself to put the email from her mind.

She spends her entire lunch break staring at her inbox, twisting her empty coffee cup around and around in her hands. In the end she opens it by mistake, deletes the message above and there it is on the screen in black and white.

_She isn't angry any more._ Bernie sags with relief. Not being angry isn't the same as forgiving her, of course, but it's a start. And she doesn't expect forgiveness anyway, doesn't deserve it.

_She wants me to go back._ But the final sentence makes her heart sink. _Not for her, for work. This is all about work._

She clicks reply, stares at the blinking cursor. Doesn't have a clue what to type.

‘Who do want to come back: your co-lead or your – whatever I am to you?’

‘What do you want me to be?’

‘What do you want?’

She sighs, closes the message, gets back to work.

She does this every day for a week but no flashes of inspiration hit.

_How long is too long to leave replying? How long before it’s stranger to reply than not?_

_What do you want, Serena?_

A text makes that clear: it's the hospital that needs her, not Serena.

_She hasn't decided. Or she has, and–_

_But no, she would tell me. Wouldn't she? After the miscommunication we've already had she'd be clear. She hasn't decided._

_I can't go back. She needs more time, more space. The hospital can manage a little longer. Hanssen would get in touch if they really needed me._

_I won't push her._

Even to her it sounds like an excuse.

*          *          *

Bernie misses dancing, she finds. Misses it desperately, in fact, her love rekindled after years without it. She finds herself longing to move, finds herself walking in time to any music she hears, feet falling in quicks and slows with the beat. With the aid of Google it's easy enough to find a social group in Kyiv to go along to one Saturday evening. She even leaves the hospital on time in order to get there, the first time she hasn't stayed late into the night since she arrived. And when she steps inside and everything about the room and the atmosphere is so familiar, for a moment she thinks _yes, this is it, this is what I need._

Her rudimentary Ukrainian and their passable English is enough for welcomes and the exchange of names. A young man called Oleg holds out his hand, eyebrow raised and head cocked, an offer that requires no words. Bernie accepts, places her hand in his ( _too large, too rough_ ), walks onto the floor with him.

She’s never danced to this song before, recognises it though. _Beach Boys?_ she thinks, knowing she’s probably wrong, immediately followed by: _Serena would know._ She tries not to think of how Serena would look at her, exasperated with her lack of pop culture knowledge yet still fond. Tries not to think of how she would shoot back that _it doesn’t matter, what’s important is that I know what to dance to it._

And she does. The beat is familiar; so are the leads and steps and patterns. Quickstep.

It takes precisely half a circuit of the room for Bernie to realise her mistake, to wonder how she could possibly have fooled herself. Because of course it isn't dancing she misses, not as such. It's dancing with Serena. If she wasn't dancing Bernie would scrub her eyes with her hand. As it is she fixes a smile on her face when Oleg, clearly feeling her tense, looks at her questioningly. Continues the dance, following leads that are decent enough but less skilful than Serena would give her. Forces herself to focus, to try not to think about her. (Futile, as she has by now learnt. _How did I ever think of anything else?_ she wonders. _What did I think of before her?_ )

She stays for a while, dances a few more times in the hope that the yearning will fade, that she will start to enjoy herself. But then a waltz comes on. It may not be _their_ song, and she may be following not leading, but it makes her heart ache sharply, her breath catching in her throat. She knows then, in that moment (whisk, weave, natural turn, spin turn), that she can no longer push this away, no longer ignore it.

She makes it to the end of the record then slips away into the night, walks briskly through the cold streets back to her empty apartment. Pours a half glass of Shiraz even though it isn't Sunday and tries to breathe past the constriction in her chest, the pressure of gathering tears. And then she lets out a harsh breath, half laugh, half sob. There's no one here to see, so what does it matter if she cries?

*

Once she starts it seems impossible to stop. There are so many things Bernie has never cried for, never mourned. She long ago built a wall around her heart – bricks and mortar, plastered over and left to dry – so no hurt can get in and nothing hurtful can escape. The best way to keep in forbidden desires, to keep out her mother’s disappointment and Marcus’s disapproval. The only way to keep out the pain of leaving her children every time she went on tour.

She thought it was secure but perhaps there always _was_ a weakness, a hairline fracture, invisible to the mind’s eye, papered over but still there. Because somehow Serena – beautiful, vivacious Serena – has got inside.

She wonders when it started, this slow, unwitting invasion. Admits it was probably the very moment they met, a conversation that suddenly made a shitty day (week, month, year) seem less terrible. And then, under the pressure of coffees and surgeries and drinks at Albie’s, the wall cracked, fragments slipping out of alignment to expose her battered, aching heart. Without her even realising.

She sobs until her eyes are sore and her throat is hoarse, more tears than she has shed in the rest of her life put together, it seems. Then she sniffs, wipes her cheeks with her hands, sighs. It feels a little better, like she's let out something that has been boiling inside her. A pressure released, like a chest drain for a haemothorax. She finds she can breathe again, can think again without her mind going blank in panic.

Bernie reaches for her barely touched wine, takes a sip.

_Serena_ , she thinks, as she does every time she tastes Shiraz.

‘Two options, Wolfe,’ she says, croaky voice loud in the silent flat.

She’ll never be the same again. Either she has to shore up her heart, defend herself from this – or accept it, remodel her heart, change, take the risk. Old Bernie wouldn’t have stopped to think. But new Bernie has Serena fixed irrevocably – inoperably – inside her. Back when she started at Holby, Hanssen spoke to her of the necessity of evolving. Bernie isn’t the same person any more.

So here she is, doing something very un-Bernie and wilfully prising open the edges. The Shiraz does nothing to numb this self-inflicted pain. But then if she’d really wanted numbing she’d have chosen vodka. No, _in vino veritas_.

‘No more lies,’ she says firmly. ‘Time for the truth.’

It doesn't take long at all to find it, not even the rest of her wine.

*

She wakes the next morning to a text from Serena. It’s signed with a kiss. Bernie stares and stares at it – not the message itself, but that one character. Because the rest of it, the words, don’t really matter. Serena has signed it with a kiss. That means this is personal; this is about them, not work. She exhales shakily, hovers her finger over the ‘x’.

_I could reply. I_ should _reply._

She tries it out in her head.

‘I’m still here. I’m coming back. I mean I will be.’

‘I’ll arrange it tomorrow. I can’t just leave, I have to–’

‘I’ll have to work out my notice. I don’t know when I’ll–’

She shakes her head, lets her phone fall to the mattress. Better to wait, to reply when she knows, when she can say exactly when she’ll be back. She thinks of nothing else all day, when she goes for a run, when she puts on a wash and cleans the kitchen, when she settles in front of _Strictly._

But when she goes to bed, when she’s lying in the dark staring at the ceiling, she begins to worry.

_What if it doesn’t mean anything, the kiss? What if it’s just automatic, a reflex, something she often adds to the end of messages to people? What if she didn’t mean to send it?_

_What if she just wants to know why her colleague isn’t back yet?_

By the time she falls into a fitful sleep, Bernie has convinced herself that that’s the case.

_I know how I feel, what I want. She doesn’t. I can wait. God, I’d wait forever for her._

*

Later that week she receives another text: ‘I MISS YOU’.

‘I miss you too,’ she wants to reply. ‘So much that it hurts.’

Doesn’t.

But the next morning she’s waiting outside her Ukrainian boss’s office at 0746, even though he never arrives before 8 on the dot. He agrees to her return remarkably easily. Bernie had her arguments ready – she’s already completed her real work, the work she was here to do, he can’t force her to stay – but he just nods, thanks her for her time and effort, says that it’s been a pleasure. She stares at him, astonished, wonders if Hanssen had a hand in this, if he instructed that she should be allowed to leave whenever she asked.

_It’s the sort of thing he would do_ , she thinks. _An insurance policy to protect his hospital._

Whether that’s the case or not the outcome is the same: she’s going home. To Serena.

On her lunch break she looks at flights.

Ten long days later she’s on a plane.

And then in a taxi.

And then on the ward.

And then, finally, after more misunderstanding and miscommunication, in Serena’s arms.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:  
> Waltz - [Bring On The Wonder](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zb0x4_2xocY&spfreload=10)

Serena looks up from her computer at the sound of the door opening, leans back in her chair and smiles when she sees Bernie, bearing two cups of coffee.

‘Thought you could probably do with some too,’ she says, placing one beside Serena's keyboard, clutching the other to her chest as she sits on the edge of the desk. Not touching – Serena has insisted on boundaries and professionalism, almost as much to restrain herself as to offer less fuel to the rumour mill – but close enough that all either of them would have to do is reach out a hand. They wouldn't even have to stretch.

She reaches for her coffee instead, inhales deeply. ‘Strong and hot,’ she says approvingly.

‘Just how you like it,’ Bernie smiles.

Serena meets her eye, can't help smiling back. Can't help the flare of arousal either – and knows from the twitch of Bernie's lips that she can tell. Knows from the spark in her eyes that she feels it too. She tightens her grip on her coffee.

‘Thursday tomorrow,’ she says conversationally.

‘Yes,’ Bernie says slowly, frowning, shaking her head slightly to dispel some of the want.

Serena waits, sees the moment Bernie realises what she means. ‘Do you have plans?’ she asks innocently.

‘Well,’ Bernie says softly, gazing at Serena from under her fringe. ‘I was rather hoping a certain gorgeous woman might want to go dancing with me.’

‘Were you?’

‘Mm. And I, uh, I wondered if she – you – might like to go for dinner somewhere first?’

‘A date, Ms Wolfe?’ Serena teases, eyes glittering.

‘A date,’ Bernie confirms, smiling that half smile which is somehow both hesitant and brimming with confidence – and utterly irresistible.

‘I'd really like that,’ Serena smiles. She lets herself reach out, then, fingers just barely brushing Bernie's knee before fluttering up to grasp her necklace.

Bernie gazes at her, eyes warm and soft and so open. So full of love – and, while not burning with it, the desire neither of them seems able to satisfy.

There's a tap at the door, and they both look around automatically.

‘Ms Wolfe, could you come and talk to Mr Fox about his test results please?’ Morven asks. ‘I’ve explained them to him, but he insists on hearing it from a consultant.’

‘Of course.’ Bernie pushes herself up, shoots a smile at Serena before heading out onto the ward.

Serena relaxes back into her chair, sips her coffee, rolls aching shoulders. Closes her eyes, lets her head fall first to one side and then the other, feels the stretch along her neck. She smiles again, feels a thrill at the prospect of dinner – a date – with Bernie. Feels a bigger, considerably less work friendly, thrill at the thought of dancing with her again. And then she yawns. She's exhausted – but it's entirely different to the tiredness she felt while Bernie was away. Another thrill, even less work friendly, at the memory of last night, the night before, the one before that. Sunday morning. The night Bernie returned.

Serena had already known Bernie's body. Already known how it felt pressed against hers, how it felt to have Bernie's arms around her, Bernie's breath hot beside her ear, Bernie's hand in hers. How Bernie moves, how her muscles shift. How to move in tandem with her, in harmony, in perfect time and rhythm. And she had thought, dreamed, _fantasised_ , about doing more, about being pressed together with no clothes between them, about Bernie's hands elsewhere on her body, about her hands on Bernie. She had thought she was at least a little bit prepared.

She wasn't.

Serena shivers, at the same time feels suffused with warmth. She was expecting it to be good – why wouldn't it be, when they feel so much for each other, when they've both been wanting this so long, when they're so good together in theatre and on the dance floor? But it's so far beyond _good_ Serena doesn't think it's even on the same scale. Every part of her aches, she can barely hold her head up, but all she wants to do when they leave work is kiss, touch, drag Bernie against her. Press her against the nearest hard surface, take her to bed, _anything_ to feel her.

She doesn't know how she'll ever dance with Bernie again. Not now she knows how it feels to have their skin touching at every point. Not now their hands and lips have roamed. Not now they've fucked (and there's no other word for it, for all that they've made love, soft and tender, too) up against her bedroom wall in a parody of the tango, hips rocking together, delicious wet heat on each other's thighs. Not now she knows how it feels to have their legs hook and rub and tangle with no fabric between them. Not now that smouldering gaze has been turned on her without the mask, the pretence, of a dance.

But she doesn't know how she could _not_ dance with her either. How she could not seize every opportunity, every excuse to be so close to her. She can't do it at work, can't be reminded of all the things they've done, all the things they've yet to do (some that she's thought about, some that they've whispered to each other in voices low and rough with desire, some that she hasn't even imagined but can't wait for just the same), when they have to be professional, when lives are depending on them.

Work has become an intricate dance again, only now they’re as close as can be without actually touching. The merest sliver of air between them in the trauma bay, Bernie’s arm on the back of her chair, practically shoulder to shoulder when they walk down the corridor together. In theatre, where there’s never been any avoiding proximity, their hands dance with organs and each other, as seamless as ever. And in between the scrub room – an odd, liminal space, not theatre yet not quite subject to the same rules as the ward; the press of arms at the sink here, the brush of fingers as they leave, Bernie’s hand on the small of her back, Serena permits.

 _Confined to theatre,_ she thinks with a smile. _In a way, at least._

On the dance floor, though, it's sanctioned, this dangerous proximity. Expected. Necessary. They've been like that already, _before_. Serena can't quite suppress a soft moan at the thought of what it's going to be like now, _after_.

She's torn from her thoughts by the beeping of her pager, glances at it to see that Sacha needs her for a consult. She clears her throat, sips her coffee, scolds herself for getting lost in all this in the middle of her shift. Can't stop herself from glancing at Bernie while she's waiting for the lift, from smiling when Bernie turns and catches her eye.

*          *          *

Surgery overruns.

 _Of course it would,_ Serena thinks with a sigh when she makes it back to their office only – oh, an hour after the reservation she asked Lou to cancel when it became clear they weren’t going to make it.

Bernie isn’t far behind. She closes the door and leans against it, tipping her head back to rest against the glass. Serena watches, takes her in, eyes flicking from long legs to elegant neck to tired face.

 _Mine,_ she thinks with a rush of affection, and wonders if it’ll ever stop feeling like this.

Bernie is looking at her too, the corners of her eyes crinkling, the corners of her mouth slightly upturned. ‘So much for dinner,’ she murmurs. And then her stomach rumbles, and Serena smiles at the blush pinking her cheeks.

‘Chips?’ she suggests.

Bernie’s stomach rumbles again, and this time they both smile.

‘I think that’s a yes.’

Bernie moves away from the door, moves towards Serena. Reaches to barely tangle their fingers. ‘And then I’m going to take you dancing, Serena Campbell,’ she says softly. ‘I’m going to have you in my arms all night.’

‘All night?’ Serena teases, with the quirk of an eyebrow.

‘All night,’ Bernie confirms, her voice suddenly low, her thumb sweeping across Serena’s.

Serena exhales shakily, tears her gaze from Bernie’s and slips her hand free.

‘We’d best get going, then,’ she says, passing Bernie her coat before pulling on her own, picking up her handbag and starting for the door, looking anywhere but at Bernie’s face.

‘Serena?’

Serena hears the worry, sees it in the twist of her hands. She steps closer to her, arms just brushing, meets her eye. ‘Don’t want to waste another moment here. Not when I’ve got that to look forward to.’

Her eyes are dark, full of promise, and she hears Bernie’s unsteady breath and hard swallow, the murmured ‘Right’ when Serena passes her and opens the door.

*

They eat with their fingers, straight from the paper, knees knocking under the tiny round table, amid the glare of light bouncing from the fryers and the crackle of cooking batter and the scent of frying and vinegar. Bernie burns her tongue on her fish in her haste to quiet her stomach, and Serena shoots her a look that somehow both scolds her impatience and promises to kiss it better later. A look that has Bernie almost choking as her breath catches in her throat.

‘Did you– did you dance while I, uh, while I was away?’ Bernie asks hesitantly. She’s expecting Serena to say that yes, of course she did. That she was dancing long before Bernie arrived in her neatly organised life and wasn’t about to stop just because she’d buggered off. Already feels that jealousy again, the jealousy she has no right to feel because it was her fault, her mistake, her cowardice that–

‘Once,’ Serena says, so softly Bernie barely hears her over the shout of an order for one cod and chips, a large battered sausage, mushy peas. ‘I went once, managed a few dances until, well, until our song,’ she adds, with a rueful smile.

‘Oh,’ Bernie breathes. She reaches across the table and touches Serena’s wrist. Serena shifts her hand, turns it so they are palm to palm, Serena’s fingers against her pulse. ‘I, uh, I went dancing once in Ukraine.’

‘You did?’

Bernie nods. ‘I missed it – or I thought I did. What I actually missed was dancing with you.’ She smiles sadly and feels Serena shift and tighten her grip, tips of her fingers pressing into the space between metacarpals. Curls her own fingers to grasp the base of Serena’s thumb.

‘I missed dancing with you too.’

Bernie wants to apologise again but Serena’s been clear about drawing a line under it, about moving forward together rather than dwelling. So she doesn’t. Instead she swipes a particularly tempting chip from Serena’s paper, pops it into her mouth before Serena can swat at her. Returns her attention to her food but doesn’t let go of Serena’s hand, doesn’t stop glancing across at her and smiling, her heart fluttering every time their eyes catch.

*

When they’re walking across the school car park, side by side, Bernie feels herself begin to panic. It’s being back here, in a place almost as important to them as work. Far too much emotion, too many memories. Her breath quickens and shallows, her heart pounding, her mouth dry.

‘I’m, uh, I’m just going to pop to the loo,’ she says hoarsely once they’re inside, the sound of voices and music pushing her too far to manage.

Serena looks at her steadily, warmly, and Bernie tries not to hide it, tries to let her see that she needs a moment, needs to run just a little way so she doesn’t become overwhelmed.

‘I’ll bag us some seats,’ she says, touching a hand to her elbow, and Bernie smiles gratefully.

In the bathroom she grips the edge of the sink, so hard her knuckles turn as white as the porcelain. Stares at the brown lines of cracks, the splash of pink soap, the puddle of water on the blue-green-grey counter. Breathes slowly, carefully.

In, out.

In, out.

She raises her head and stares at herself in the mirror. There are circles beneath her eyes, as there have been ever since she ran. Only now – she smiles, and her eyes spark, and she feels a rush of arousal – now they’re from spending her nights not sleeping in Serena’s bed, Serena beside her, beneath her, above her, around her.

She holds her hands under the hot tap, feels the water warming her. Raises one experimentally and sees that it’s no longer trembling. Flicks off the excess water, pats the rest off with a paper towel, runs her fingers through her hair.

When she walks into the hall Serena is stood talking to Neil, David, Martin and Helena. She’s alight, glowing, and when she catches Bernie’s eye nothing else in the world matters. No need to be afraid.

Bernie brushes past her deliberately, revels in the slight press of Serena’s body as she sways towards her. She sits to change her shoes, hand sneaking to touch Serena’s bare ankle under the pretence of fixing a twisted strap, fingers trailing up her calf, feeling the quiver of muscle. She misses Neil’s knowing glance, the smile Martin and Helena share, as she’s too busy trying to concentrate on fastening her own shoes, cursing the fact that she still hasn’t got round to replacing them.

Finally she’s done, stands and smooths her shirt and takes the tiny step needed to almost close the gap between them, her front almost against Serena’s back, her fingers just an inch from her.

The music changes: it’s their song, their waltz. The first song they ever danced to, the song they both alternately listened to on repeat and avoided like the plague while Bernie was away. Now Bernie does close the gap, has to touch her, has to bring this full circle, back to where this part of them began. She rests her hand lightly on Serena’s hip, smiles when she feels Serena lean into her, when Serena’s hand covers hers.

‘Dance, Serena?’ David asks, holding out his hand.

Bernie’s about to interject, to stake her claim just as she did that first night, but Serena gets there first.

‘Actually, I’m afraid I’m already taken,’ she says. And the smile when she turns her head to look over her shoulder at Bernie warms her right through, makes her feel she could skip and spin around the room all night and well into the morning.

 _She chose me,_ Bernie thinks, with a sense of wonder. _Of everyone, she wants me._

‘Shall we, darling?’ Serena asks, offering her hand.

‘Yes,’ Bernie smiles, taking it and tangling their fingers. ‘Always yes.’

Bernie leads, just as she did that first evening. But tonight she draws Serena closer than she did then, shivers and feels Serena shiver too at the press of their bodies.

‘Don’t think about it,’ she murmurs, smiling when Serena looks at her sharply. ‘I know you are, because I am too.’

Serena laughs softly. ‘Is it any wonder?’

Bernie shakes her head, looks away to find a gap and move them onto the floor.

And Serena finds she doesn’t think about it. Doesn’t think about Bernie’s skin against hers, Bernie’s legs wrapped around her hips. Just like she doesn’t think about Bernie’s naked body in her arms when they’re beside each other on the ward, Bernie’s fingers inside her and hers inside Bernie when they’re in theatre.

Instead she thinks about Bernie’s hand on her back, gently guiding her, Bernie’s shoulders turning her body, Bernie’s hips moving with hers.

‘I’ve missed this,’ she says with a quiet sigh.

‘Me too,’ Bernie replies. She leads Serena into a hesitation, takes advantage of the beat of stillness to meet her eye. The world, already shrunk to just this dance floor, shrinks again to just them.

And then they move off, chassé and lockstep and on, back into the flow of the music. Lead and follow, give and take, back and forth, perfect without even thinking about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A glimpse of the Sunday night Serena references can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8800489/chapters/20176150), and my headcanon for the night of Bernie's return [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8684152/chapters/19908394) (it wasn't written with this fic in mind so lacks the dancing references, but it remains my headcanon for this AU too!).


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here we are folks – the last dance. I don't know about you, but I can't quite believe that we're here! This fic has been a real labour of love for me. To borrow from Bernie, I wrote this because I wanted to and beyond that I wasn't really thinking. That so many of you have also enjoyed it has been a surprise and a delight. This fandom is just wonderful and you've made writing and posting this a rather remarkable experience, so thank you to everyone who’s read, left kudos and commented.
> 
> I remember being on a creative writing course years ago, and the tutor told us that we should think of the ending of a story as the reader’s reward. You've stuck with me through the angst and slow burn, so I hope this does the job! This chapter wasn't in my original plan but a certain image lodged in my mind and refused to leave until I wrote it, and then it just kept on growing. But I figured you probably wouldn't mind. Please note, the rating most certainly applies here…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:  
> Foxtrot - [It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yrRPLBYiiEc&spfreload=10)  
> Rumba - [The Tide is High](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-0skjm-uJSs)  
> Waltz - [Bring On The Wonder](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zb0x4_2xocY&spfreload=10)

A weekend in early December. Early enough that the festive rush hasn’t yet started on AAU, that they have been able to get a Saturday evening off together with the night shift ordered on pain of death to only page either of them for the direst of emergencies, and only after they’ve tried every other consultant in the hospital first.

They wake together in Serena’s bed, to the sound of the shower down the hall running.

‘Better get up,’ Bernie murmurs, kissing her softly. ‘I promised pancakes and they take longer than porridge.’

Serena rolls her eyes, half-heartedly curses her darling nephew’s schedule for taking Bernie from her bed but, as she watches Bernie pull a jumper over her pyjamas and rummage in a drawer for a pair of Serena’s woolly socks, her heart warms. Because Bernie has accepted Jason without hesitation, has tried her hardest to learn his schedule, has fitted their dates around him without even a hint of frustration.

Bernie leans over her, smiling, strokes the backs of her fingers down Serena’s cheek, kisses her again. This time she lets her lips linger a little, leaves Serena in no doubt that a large part of her wants nothing more than to slip back into bed and while the morning away together.

‘Tomorrow,’ she promises, eyes sparkling.

‘Mm,’ Serena agrees, running her fingers through Bernie’s tangled hair, drawing her in for another kiss before reluctantly letting her go. ‘I’ll be down soon, darling,’ she promises.

She watches Bernie leave the room then rolls and stretches, luxuriating in the feel of the soft sheets, and in the knowledge that neither of them has anywhere to be all weekend apart from together. The knowledge that tonight they are going out dancing, and tomorrow they can spend as long as they want in Bernie’s bed.

Serena comes downstairs with her fluffy robe securely wrapped around her to find Bernie stood over the stove and Jason setting out a variety of pancake toppings: lemon and sugar for him, fruit and maple syrup for Serena, Nutella for Bernie. She feels almost teary at the sight of them together, feels like her heart might burst when they both turn and smile at her.

‘I could get used to this,’ she teases, leaning to brush a soft kiss to Bernie’s lips before pouring herself a mug of tea.

‘We couldn’t have pancakes for breakfast every morning,’ Jason points out, matter-of-fact. ‘Or we would be even later than usual.’

Bernie smirks at this, and Serena scowls and sticks out her tongue.

‘Although I have noticed,’ he continues, oblivious to their silent exchange, ‘that you get ready much faster on the mornings when Bernie hasn’t stayed over.’

‘Is that right?’ Serena asks, raising her eyebrow at Bernie.

‘Yes. You seem much keener to get out of the house on those mornings, Auntie Serena.’

Serena flushes slightly, and Bernie presses her lips together hard to keep herself from laughing.

‘Miss me, do you?’ Bernie murmurs later, when Jason has gone off to get ready to meet Celia and they’re curled on the sofa with fresh mugs of tea.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Serena replies. ‘It just takes me much less time to get ready without you distracting me.’

‘Oh really?’ Bernie asks, her free hand loosening the tie of Serena’s robe so she can slip it inside, slip it under Serena’s top to smooth over warm skin.

‘Hm,’ Serena smiles, head lolling back to rest against Bernie’s shoulder. ‘You’re a terrible influence.’

‘You could complain,’ Bernie points out between kisses to Serena’s ear, neck, jaw.

‘I believe I have, on multiple occasions.’

‘Not my fault you’re so gorgeous.’

‘Oh so now it’s my fault, is it?’

Serena twists in Bernie’s arms, smirks when Bernie moans softly, leans closer so their noses brush, so they’re breathing each other’s air. Bernie’s eyes are dark, shining with an adoration Serena never expected to see directed at her by anyone, let alone Bernie Wolfe.

‘Maybe we could accept joint responsibility?’ Bernie suggests, almost closing the gap between their lips.

‘We are equals, after all,’ Serena adds.

She’s just about to kiss her when Jason comes back down the stairs.

‘I need to be at Celia’s in precisely one hour, Auntie Serena,’ he says.

‘Yes, dear,’ Serena replies, sitting up with a last, longing look at Bernie’s lips.

‘Maybe Bernie should stay down here while you get ready,’ he suggests. ‘So you don’t take as long.’

This time Bernie can’t quite suppress a snort, although at Serena’s glare does manage to keep from bursting out laughing.

‘You’ll be here when I get back?’ Serena asks once she’s dressed, one hand on the front door and the other on Bernie’s arm, while Jason goes on ahead to sit in the car.

‘Course,’ Bernie smiles. ‘Might even have got dressed by then.’

‘Not sure I’d bother if I were you,’ Serena murmurs, voice laden with promise.

But when Serena gets back Bernie is not only fully dressed but pulling on her boots and coat.

‘Trauma call,’ she explains.

‘You need me too?’

Bernie shakes her head, slips one arm around Serena’s waist and kisses her.

‘Just make sure you’re finished on time, won’t you?’

‘Wild horses couldn’t keep me away,’ she promises. ‘Nothing’s getting in the way of tonight.’

*

And so instead of a leisurely lunch followed by an afternoon together in bed Serena eats a solitary sandwich and then dozes in front of an old [Ealing comedy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gqWnuuKEPIA&spfreload=10), while Bernie practically inhales the sandwich Morven hands her on her way to the locker room and is then elbow deep in blood and steel plates and screws. When she gets out of theatre she’s exhausted and wants nothing more than a hug from Serena followed by a long nap before they go out.

 _But you won’t be getting any sleep if you go to Serena’s,_ she thinks as she walks to her car, with a shiver that has nothing whatsoever to do with the cold.

Because both of them seem to be utterly insatiable. It doesn’t matter how much they kiss, how long they spend in bed, how many times they come, still they both want more. God, even the thought of it – of Serena kissing her in welcome, of Serena in her arms, of Serena pulling her down onto the bed – is enough, and she shakes her head with a tiny laugh of disbelief.

‘Snap out of it,’ she tells herself firmly, pulling out her phone and texting Serena to tell her that she’s finished, that she’s heading to her flat for a nap, that she’ll see her later.

Her bed feels cold and empty, but she drifts into sleep almost as soon as her head hits the pillow and knows this was the right decision.

*          *          *

Bernie looks at herself in the mirror, stands on tiptoes, turns this way and that, twists her head to try and see herself from all angles. Then she looks at the tux, still on its hanger. She sighs, bites her lip, reaches to touch the jacket and then looks in the mirror again, hands smoothing over the cool silk covering her stomach and hips.

She can’t even remember the last time she wore a dress – gown, more like; some hospital event with Marcus when she was between tours, she supposes – and she feels unsettled, butterflies filling her stomach, steady surgeon’s fingers trembling just a little.

She hadn’t even meant to buy it, had only been in Debenhams to use the toilets, but it had caught her eye as the perfect way to get revenge on Serena for the low back of her dress last time they went out dancing for the night, all those months ago. And when she had tried it on she had imagined the dark glittering of Serena’s eyes, had longed to see her expression, so she had bought it. But now it comes to actually wearing it, _well_.

And then her phone chimes.

‘Hope you’re ready, just turning onto your road x’

‘Well, that’s that, then,’ Bernie mutters.

She pulls on her coat, grabs her clutch and shoes and hurries out to meet the taxi.

*

‘Shall I take your coat?’ Bernie asks as they step inside.

Serena nods, unbuttons and shrugs it off, passes it over to Bernie in exchange for her shoes.

‘You look wonderful,’ Bernie says softly, eyes tracing Serena’s body and then meeting hers again.

Serena smiles, doesn’t tell her that she bought the dress on a whim because it’s almost exactly the colour of Bernie’s scrubs.

‘Won’t be a moment.’

Serena waits as Bernie disappears into the cloakroom; waits with anticipation because she has no idea what Bernie’s wearing and her coat was long enough to hide any clues. She’ll be wearing a suit, Serena’s certain of it, can’t wait for the point in the evening when Bernie rolls up her sleeves so Serena can caress the thin skin of her wrists, when she allows Serena to undo an extra button on her shirt so she can gaze on the hollow of her throat and the sharp lines of her clavicles.

When she comes back Serena gulps, forces herself to take a deep breath of air that suddenly seems much too thin. Because Bernie isn’t wearing a suit. She’s wearing a dress.

Serena drags her gaze upwards, takes in hair caught up in a clip so every inch of that elegant, gorgeous, delicious neck is visible. Long twists of silver hang from her ears, sparkling as they catch the light.

She lets her eyes drift lower, and feels the slightest pang of disappointment. It isn’t that Bernie doesn’t look stunning: the near floor length dove grey silk sheath fits perfectly, clings to Bernie’s slender figure in all the right places, and as always Serena’s heart swoops with desire and love and disbelief at the fact that Bernie is hers, that she is Bernie’s. It’s just that the neckline is high, right up to the base of Bernie’s throat. Which means that her collarbones – those delectable collarbones Serena delights in tracing with her eyes, her fingers, her tongue – are hidden from view.

The moment Bernie turns around when Neil arrives and calls a greeting she forgives her, and her mouth goes dry and her mind blanks, and she has to reach out a hand to the nearest pillar. Because the dress has a cowl back and the silk drapes low, practically to the base of Bernie’s spine. Serena has spent hours studying and touching and adoring Bernie’s back, massages and touches and kisses to scapulae and vertebrae and muscles. She knows she won’t be able to stop her hands from straying while they dance, won’t be able to stop her fingertips edging further around Bernie’s back to splay across all that bare skin, to press lightly into the dip of her spine, to feel the ridges of each vertebra.

 _And who could, really?_ Serena thinks almost wildly. _When confronted with that, with her? It would certainly take a far stronger woman than me._

And when they get home – _oh,_ when they get home she knows she’ll take great pleasure ( _oh yes, very great indeed_ ) in following the same pattern with her lips.

When Bernie turns around to cross the foyer with Neil and sees Serena’s wide, dark eyes and slack jaw she knows she made the right decision. Because Serena’s gazing at her like she’s the most beautiful woman in the world – and under her attention Bernie feels it. She smiles, holds Serena’s gaze and winks, feels herself sparkle when Serena flushes and swallows hard.

And then Bernie lets her gaze drop, doesn’t bother trying to disguise the way her eyes rake across Serena’s figure and really take in the cobalt dress, with its plunging neckline and gathered waist accentuating every perfect curve.

 _Good choice,_ Serena manages to congratulate herself.

And then her eyes drift lower, and she fails miserably to tamp down the desire when she sees – _oh my_ – the split half way up Bernie’s thigh, the pale length of slender leg visible with every step she takes.

Eyes fixed on Serena’s again Bernie stops a foot away, the air between them crackling.

‘You alright?’ she smirks, gaze flicking to Serena’s hand still gripping the pillar.

‘Just propping it up,’ she replies, trying to sound casual. ‘God, Bernie, surely that dress is illegal. Are you trying to kill me?’

‘I could ask you the same thing.’

Serena risks supporting her own weight, reaches to run her hand down Bernie’s arm and feels fine hairs stand up as Bernie shivers slightly. Their fingers tangle automatically and Serena has to fight the urge to tug her closer, to pull Bernie’s body flush against her own, to slide her hand down the curve of Bernie’s spine and feel her press into her and hear her breathy moan beside her ear.

‘Behave, you two,’ Neil teases, and they both jump as the rest of the world floods back in.

‘Hello, you,’ Serena smiles, kissing Neil’s cheek but not letting go of Bernie’s hand. ‘I’ll try my best, but no promises,’ she says with a wink.

*

A mere handful of dances after dinner, Bernie begins to regret her choice of dress. Well, not the dress as such: it’s wonderful to dance in, the split allowing for a good range of movement and the hem just high enough that she doesn’t catch her heels on it every other step. No, it’s Serena’s reaction that’s problematic. Because Serena’s hand inches a little further around Bernie’s back with each dance that she leads (and she’s leading a lot tonight, far more than usual; an excuse, Bernie suspects).

And then, mid foxtrot, Serena’s fingers press into her spine _just there_ and Bernie can’t help but arch into her, can’t help but moan as it presses them even closer. She doesn’t need to look to know that Serena’s smirking, to know that her eyes have darkened even further.

‘Stop that,’ she murmurs, mouth almost against Serena’s ear, as her fingers trail up and down.

‘Hm?’

Bernie firmly tugs Serena around and takes the lead without missing a beat, forcing Serena’s hands to much safer locations. She glances at her, sees her pout.

‘Unless you want me to ravish you in a toilet cubicle,’ she says, low and gravelly, lips brushing the shell of Serena’s ear.

‘Actually,’ Serena replies, her voice smoky, her fingers caressing Bernie’s arm, ‘I was planning on being the one doing the ravishing, darling.’

‘Oh,’ Bernie exhales, barely managing to keep her feet moving. ‘How do you expect me to concentrate now?’

‘You were the one who chose that dress,’ Serena retorts. ‘I think I’ve been doing rather well, considering.’

*

‘Do you remember,’ Serena murmurs, ‘that night when I should have been in Italy?’

Bernie’s leading again now, Serena’s hands not roaming but the sides of their heads touching, their bodies close as they rumba.

‘Mm,’ Bernie replies. ‘Did you want me as much as I wanted you?’

‘Yes,’ Serena whispers. ‘I didn’t realise, not until we kissed, but I did. So much, Bernie.’

Bernie draws back a little, enough that their noses touch and their eyes meet, and she sees that Serena’s desire is tempered a little by regret. ‘Don’t,’ she says softly, barely brushing their lips. ‘We’re here now. And,’ she adds, drawing Serena even closer so they’re fully pressed together, hips rocking, ‘tonight you can do something about it.’

Serena moans quietly, turns her head so she can press a kiss behind Bernie’s ear. ‘I fully intend to,’ she murmurs against her skin.

*

After a few more dances Bernie feels her restraint dwindling in the face of her raging libido, leads Serena towards their table and feels a rush of relief when she sees Neil sat there.

‘I’ve rather monopolised you tonight,’ she says to Serena as they come to stand beside him.

Neil must hear something in her voice, see something in her eyes, because he immediately stands and offers his hand to Serena. ‘May I?’

Serena glances at Bernie who nods. ‘I could do with a sit down anyway,’ she smiles.

‘Tired, darling?’ Serena asks, frowning. ‘We can leave, if you prefer.’

‘No, no, just need a bit of a break,’ Bernie replies, and then leans closer to murmur in her ear. ‘You don’t want to tire me out, after all. Or your plans might not come to fruition.’

‘Cruel, cruel woman,’ Serena groans.

‘Save the last dance for me?’

By way of answer Serena kisses her, not at all chastely, not really appropriate for when they’re surrounded by people, and it does nothing to slow Bernie’s heart, to dampen her desire. She almost drags Serena from the room but instead lets her go, sits heavily in her chair with a sigh and watches the no doubt deliberate sway of Serena’s hips as Neil leads her onto the floor.

Bernie calms a little, with deep breaths and cool water and time not in Serena’s arms, not touching Serena, not pressed against her with only two thin layers of silk between them.

 _How did I ever dance with her before?_ she wonders. _How did I manage to go so long without kissing her?_

*

The last dance is, as always, a waltz. Serena is taking her hands, drawing her up and slipping into hold even before the music starts. And when it does Bernie shakes her head and smiles fondly.

‘Was this your doing?’ she murmurs as they step together into basic, whisk, weave.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Serena replies innocently.

‘Just a coincidence, is it, that they happened to play this song?’

‘Must be,’ Serena says, but Bernie can hear the smile in her voice, takes her eyes off the floor in front of them long enough to brush a kiss to her temple.

‘Do you remember,’ Bernie begins, but Serena stops her with a squeeze of her hand, with a kiss pressed to the curve of her neck.

‘Everything, darling,’ she murmurs, her breath whispering across Bernie’s skin. ‘Every time, every dance. Everything you made me feel, everything I wanted to do to you, wanted you to do to me.’

Bernie lets out a shuddering sigh, feels the heat she’d managed to tamp down building again, reverts to basic box steps as she fights back the haze of desire. ‘Me too,’ she replies, forcing herself to concentrate on not colliding with any other couples.

‘Let me show you, later?’ Serena asks, her right hand lightly caressing Bernie’s arm, her back arching just a little to press their hips further together, a moan spilling from each of them.

‘Yes,’ Bernie breathes. ‘God yes, Serena.’

*          *          *

As soon as they’re through her front door Bernie finds her coat being dragged from her shoulders and dropped unceremoniously to the floor, finds herself being pinned against said front door while Serena presses hot kisses to the base of her neck, a blazing trail down her spine.

‘I’ve wanted to do that all night,’ Serena growls, drawing back far enough to pull off her own coat and then moulding herself against Bernie’s back, all hot skin and cool silk.

‘What else?’ Bernie murmurs, trying to turn around.

‘No,’ Serena says firmly, holding her in place. She nuzzles into the crook of Bernie’s neck, kisses the soft skin and fading scar, nips at her earlobe, smiles when she feels her shiver, hears the moan at the back of her throat.

‘But I want to–’

‘Later,’ Serena promises, the low word vibrating through both their bodies.

Still pressed against Bernie she slips both hands around her, smooths them over Bernie’s breasts, down across her ribcage, her stomach, her hips, gathers the material of her dress and hitches it up as far as she can without ripping it. And then she drags short nails up Bernie’s thighs, and Bernie gasps and rests her forehead heavily against her arm.

‘Serena,’ she whispers.

‘Right here, darling.’

‘Oh, I know,’ Bernie says with a strangled half laugh as Serena tugs at her knickers, pushes them down far enough that they slip past her knees to the floor. ‘God,’ she adds, as Serena’s fingers rake through damp curls, as Serena opens her up, as Serena just barely touches her with icy fingers.

‘Cold,’ Bernie gasps, shivering.

‘Sorry darling,’ Serena murmurs.

But when she goes to move away Bernie pleads, ‘Don't. Just a shock.’

‘I was going to tease you,’ Serena murmurs between kisses to Bernie’s ear, neck, shoulder. ‘But I won’t,’ she soothes when Bernie whimpers in protest. ‘Oh, you’re so wet, so hot. Burning.’

‘You,’ Bernie manages, as Serena begins to stroke her. ‘Your fault.’

Serena hums into the crook of her neck, and before her mind blanks Bernie feels her smug smile against her skin.

And then Serena is touching her clit with – _oh god, how many fingers, how is she doing that?_ – and Bernie isn’t entirely sure this doesn’t count as teasing her but then suddenly Serena is deep inside her and still stroking her clit and–

Serena presses closer, if closer is possible, as she feels Bernie shudder, gives her something to press back into as her hips begin to jerk and she moans something incoherent into her arm and suddenly comes, with a ragged gasp.

*

Bernie comes to with Serena’s arms tight around her middle, Serena murmuring soothingly in her ear, and doesn’t know how she isn’t in a crumpled heap on the floor. She stirs and Serena loosens her grasp enough for Bernie to turn, to shakily step out of her shoes and knickers and lean back heavily against the blessedly solid door, drawing Serena to her with leaden arms.

‘Bed?’ she suggests.

Serena raises her head, looks at her to see half closed eyes and a lazy smile. ‘Of course,’ she replies, trying not to feel disappointed, and goes to move away.

Bernie sees, sees the glittering desire and the slightest fall of Serena’s face, feels the thrumming tension in her body, draws her back with a gentle finger under her chin.

‘I’m not done with you,’ she says, leans to kiss her and swallows Serena’s moan as their tongues touch. ‘Just think horizontal would be rather safer now you’ve turned my legs to jelly.’

Serena smiles, hums her approval against Bernie’s lips then draws away, fingers tangling with Bernie’s to lead her to the bedroom with such speed that Bernie stumbles and has to shoot her free hand out to the wall.

‘Eager, are we?’ she teases.

‘You haven’t spent all night dancing with you in that dress,’ Serena replies.

‘You like it then?’

‘Couldn’t you tell?’ Serena asks, winking.

‘Better than that?’ Bernie nods towards the suit hanging from the wardrobe door.

‘That’s more what I was expecting,’ Serena admits. ‘And very lovely it is too. But I’m glad you surprised me. Even if it was quite possibly the biggest test of self-control I’ve every experienced. That’s why you bought it, isn’t it?’ she adds, and swats Bernie’s shoulder when she smirks.

‘And you bought that because it’s the colour of my scrubs,’ Bernie counters, watching as Serena walks further into the room and contorts as she tries to reach her zip.

‘A little help, darling?’ she huffs, when stretching up on her toes and stretching down with her fingers doesn’t work, scowling at Bernie’s amused expression.

‘How did you get it on?’ Bernie asks, removing her earrings as she crosses the room, dropping them onto the chest of drawers and then coming to stand behind Serena, in front of the mirror.

‘Jason.’

Bernie nods, presses close and wraps her arms around Serena’s waist, drops her chin to rest on her shoulder. For a moment they look at themselves, meet each other’s eye in their reflection.

‘We looked good tonight,’ Serena smiles.

‘Mm,’ Bernie agrees. She draws back, fingers finding the tiny tab of the zip. Pulls it down slowly, pressing kisses to Serena’s spine until she can’t reach any lower without crouching. ‘There.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You’re very welcome,’ Bernie says, kissing her softly and smiling at the hitch of her breath. ‘Come on.’

She steps back, steps far enough away that her hands drop from Serena and fall to her sides, slips out of her dress and hangs it, takes a spare hanger and holds out her hand for Serena’s dress, swallows hard at the sight of her in matching cobalt underwear.

‘It's a good job I didn't know you were wearing that underneath.’

Serena throws a grin and a wink over her shoulder, walks to the bathroom with an extra sway in her hips, toes caressing the bare floorboards with each step.

‘Unfair,’ Bernie grumbles, hanging Serena's dress beside hers and following. ‘Doing rumba walks at me in that.’

‘You don’t like my rumba?’ Serena asks innocently.

‘Like it a bit too much,’ Bernie replies, and then tickles Serena’s side. ‘Shove over.’

They stand beside each other in front of the bathroom mirror, Bernie naked and Serena in her underwear, pass make up wipes between them, brush the last remnants of dinner from their teeth. Bernie, as always, is done first, saunters back into the bedroom and switches on a lamp, switches off the main light, unclips and shakes out her hair then turns to watch Serena reach behind her to unclasp her bra, shimmy out of her knickers and let both drop to the floor.

They meet at the foot of the bed, Bernie holding out a hand as if asking her to dance. She tangles their fingers, draws Serena to her until there’s no air between them, until their right hips are pressed together and she can feel the damp roughness of Serena’s curls against her thigh, the press of Serena’s thigh between hers.

‘I thought about this,’ she murmurs, nipples brushing and hips rocking as she nudges Serena into a basic rumba step.

‘Me too,’ Serena breathes.

Bernie slips her right hand down Serena’s back, over the curve of her arse, fingertips tickling the crease at the top of her thigh.

‘What else?’ Serena asks.

Bernie raises her head and meets Serena’s eyes, glittering and almost black, shifts her stance slightly so she can graze her hand over Serena’s hip and between them, can use her thigh as leverage as she steps forward and smoothly slides two fingers inside her.

‘Never be able to rumba again,’ Serena moans as Bernie’s fingers match the rhythm of their steps, the sway of their hips.

‘You did ask.’

‘More fool me. Mm, Bernie.’

Serena grips her arm tighter, head tipping forward to rest on Bernie’s shoulder. Bernie feels her frame loosen and her weight rest against her, reluctantly steps away and instantly feels the loss of Serena around her fingers, ignores her whimper of protest and gently pushes her onto the bed with a soft apology.

For a moment Bernie considers dragging Serena to the edge of the mattress, kneeling and burying her face between her thighs. But they’ve been pressed close, lengths of their bodies touching, all night and she’s loath to stop now. So instead she crawls over her, hovers with a few inches of crackling air between them.

‘I’ve been wanting you all night,’ she murmurs into the space between their lips. ‘That’s really why I had to sit down. I couldn’t bear to be touching you.’

‘You can touch me now,’ Serena says. ‘Please, darling.’

She does. Slides her fingers easily back inside her and smiles when Serena wraps one leg and one arm around her and pulls her as close as she can, her other hand winding in her hair, alternating between fierce kisses and delicious moans that vibrate through Bernie’s body and leave her desperate and wanting all over again.

And Serena knows, always knows, reads every tiny shift of muscle and expression just as when then dance. And, just as when they dance, she uses her shoulders and hips and rolls them so they’re facing, so she can trail her fingers over Bernie’s breast, waist, hip. A bit of reshuffling, a resettling of their legs and then her fingers find wet, silky heat, and Bernie shudders and so does she, and their lips crash together as they find a rhythm that already feels familiar after just a few weeks: quick and slow, back and forth, lead and follow.

*

‘I never want to stop dancing with you,’ Serena murmurs later, nestled into Bernie, hearts gradually slowing and skin cooling.

‘Thank goodness for hospital charity initiatives,’ Bernie says, squeezing their tangled fingers. ‘Otherwise I’d never have thought to start again.’

‘One of the better decisions you’ve made this year, darling.’ Serena raises her head from Bernie’s chest, kisses her tenderly, lightly rubs their noses together.

‘Definitely,’ Bernie agrees, ghosting her lips over Serena’s before she resettles herself with a contented sigh. ‘Will you be my partner every night?’ she whispers into Serena’s hair.

‘And every day,’ Serena confirms, lips brushing Bernie’s collarbone. ‘Enough reason to stay?’

‘The only one I need,’ Bernie replies, pressing a kiss to the top of her head and holding her even closer.


End file.
